


So it has been, time out of mind

by appalachian_fireflies



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Abuse, Bucky Barnes Needs a Hug, Bucky Barnes Recovering, Dehumanization, Dissociation, Dom/sub, HYDRA Trash Party, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Multi, Non-Binary Bucky, Power Dynamics, Rape Recovery, Recovery, Rumlow's Fragile Masculinity, Self-Harm, Suicide Attempt, bucky barnes eats ice cream
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-07-22
Updated: 2015-09-14
Packaged: 2018-04-10 15:41:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 17
Words: 39,688
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4397651
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/appalachian_fireflies/pseuds/appalachian_fireflies
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He remembers enough, then too much- his mind begins to skip, like a faulty record, <i>It’s Been a Long, Long Time</i>- </p><p>He pulls out a thick black marker from one of the pouches on his pants, and on the chair he writes: LET ME GO.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> this fic is going to start out heavy in the beginning, mind the tags. i promise there will be redemption.

_The answers quick and keen, the honest look, the laughter, the love,—_  
_They are gone. They are gone to feed the roses. Elegant and curled_  
_Is the blossom. Fragrant is the blossom. I know. But I do not approve._  
_More precious was the light in your eyes than all the roses in the world.  
\- _Dirge Without Music, Edna St. Vincent Millay__

*

When the technician lets go of his final rattling breath, his gaze rests where it meets the soldier’s. Over-bright eyes now turn glassy, peaceful. The soldier watches him for a long while, the vault around him becoming distant. There is no threat here that requires his vigilance; not anymore. 

The rubber soles of his boots are a whisper against the marble, despite the shaking in his limbs that he should know better than to allow, the horrible pressure in his head that betrays him, that jeopardizes the mission. 

The chair is smaller than he remembers. It does not loom, it has no presence beyond the sum of its parts; the worn cuffs of the arm rests, the metal plates lacking the crackle of electricity, the slick seat still smelling like piss. 

He sits in the chair for a moment, looks back into the calm eyes of the technician. He pulls out a thick black marker from one of the pouches on his pants, and on the right cuff he writes- _LET ME GO._

He closes his eyes, and the chair is just a chair. The faint hum of computer systems being simultaneously wiped follows him as-

_Hands steady on the rifle, looking through the scope, another face to identify, another life he’s taken, like so many before, and he is beginning to think there can always be new faces, new names-_

The electronic whirring slows, and the silence grows. He cannot sleep here, but he is getting closer to his peace, earned or not. 

He drags his fingers on worn tile as he exits the vault, grounding, and-

_A hand on his shoulder, approval, filling an ache he doesn’t understand, and there is something like hope, or relief, or-_

He is at the entrance to the vault, metal gate in hand, bodies trussed up like presents in front of him. The iron gate has been twisted between his fingers in one brutal movement, and the incapacitated guards gazing up at him are still as death in their terror, but they had not deserved to die. He knows who the monsters are, and these men he will leave to the judgment of those he trusts more than his own. 

One of the guards has his body curled protectively in a way that makes the soldier want to vomit-

He is in the forest, in decent cover, with no memory of how he has gotten here. He checks the list; he remembers this, at least- there are two more names for him to cross off. One poorly drawn map, one last mission. His fingers are erratic where they hold the paper, twitching in small jerks. He has no concept of how to care for this malfunction; these fingers, they are not his to maintain, he can’t- 

The twitching worsens, and the paper slips from his grip. 

*

When he comes to, the leaves on the trees move like syrup, and it is night. He is cold-

_Naked, kneeling on tile, his hair dripping in front of his eyes as he raises his head-_

The year returns to him after the mission does. On his forearm, in black marker, is _James Buchanan Barnes_. He knows, deep in his bones, that he is not well, and it is only getting worse. He has to keep moving. 

He pulls a protein bar from one of his pockets, hands shaking. He catches his reflection, haggard and dirty, flecks of plaster caught in straggling hair-

_He raises his head, fingers lifting his chin as he gasps for air, confused-_

He is vomiting. This has happened before; there is something wrong with the body, though he was never told what, or how to alleviate the cramping pain that rips through his abdomen. He knows that, for him, it will not soon be fatal. There is a file; metabolic rate during periods of starvation, deep sleep and the recovery of memory, the healing period for a broken bone. 

His mind is following his body's sharp decline, but he can still become the weapon, strong and unfailing, one last time. 

*

Steve sits in the chair, and all at once the room becomes colder, the steady flicker of old fluorescent lighting making the surface of the metal cuffs ripple oddly. 

_LET ME GO._

He runs a finger over the words, meditative. Sam watches him from the opposite corner. 

“What’s the plan, Cap? Want me to call it in?” 

Steve shakes his head. “Not till we’ve cleared the building. We’ve gotta move.” 

“You think this is it?” Sam prompts. 

Steve nods. “I’m sure of it.”

“How can you tell?” 

There’s no doubt in Sam’s tone, only steadiness, curiosity, and Steve wonders at the people he finds in his life. He shrugs. “I know him.” 

“Let’s get moving, then,” Sam says simply, and offers him a hand up. “Sure as hell not gonna miss this place.” 

Steve stands, but stares at the chair for a few moments longer, imagining Bucky being strapped into it, fighting- or worse, compliant, limbs arranged in the cuffs like a lamb to slaughter, his terror and screams of pain when the device descends; and that, he doesn’t have to imagine, he’s seen the footage-

With a loud screech and a crack that echoes through the cavernous space, the metal fixture has broken off in his hand. He drops it to the floor, and leaves the chair behind. 

Sam nods. "Ditto," he agrees. 

“He’s becoming more erratic,” Steve says decisively. “He shouldn’t be difficult to track.” 

*

For months now, the soldier- James Buchanan Barnes, Sergeant, 32557- Bucky, to his sisters, to Stephen Grant Rogers-

The soldier has been destroying any means of creating another like himself, ever again. There are still men alive whose secrets cannot be trusted in the hands of other powerful, compromising men. He knows for reasons he doesn't fully understand that they must be eliminated. Their methods must die with them. He hadn't remembered every detail in his file, but he'd remembered enough.

He’d remembered enough, then too much, to where his mind began to skip, like a record, _It’s Been a Long, Long Time_ \- 

There were memories that tore through the fabric of who he was, the sum of himself spanning decades. Men and women who took him from his body, who knew the right combination of gentle touch and warm praise, swift punishment and omnipresent fear, to keep him like a dog on a chain, kicked and muzzled and confused. At first the anger had fueled him, necks snapping like twigs, bodies dropping from a single bullet, efficient- they had wanted an attack dog, after all.

The gun is heavy in his hand, now. His arm trembles, not with fear, and wills himself to remain steady. 

“Why?” he prompts again, after the gibbering apologies have died down. 

“You’re going to kill me anyway,” the man says, flat. He shakes grey hair from his eyes, matted with blood. 

“Yes,” the soldier replies. 

“Because it was fun,” the man spat, “not like you were even fucking human, most of the time.”

“There was a cat,” the soldier says, remembering. “The mission in the Balkans. You killed it. Why?” 

The man grins, blood pink on his teeth. “That’s right, that stray you fed, thought we weren’t paying attention. I killed it because you were a goddamn open book, the way you petted that thing. ‘Cause after I killed it, you’d look at me with those big sad eyes, you’d be hurtin’ so bad when you crawled to me, make those noises when I-“

The man drops, a bullet hole neatly positioned between his brows, no time for shock. Better than he deserved; but the soldier knew he couldn’t create justice. His mission had been to eliminate those who would create monsters out of men. And now, his mission is finished. 

He takes out the black marker, runs a finger over the felt tip, and walks back to the room with the cryo chamber. He can remember, now, every forced pull back into life, the ice in his bones, hands on his body, blank and shivering and afraid. He presses the tip of the marker to the chamber. 

_I’M NOT AFRAID, ANYMORE_ , he writes. _IT’S OK._

He sits on the floor, caps the marker, and pulls out a knife. He’s had a brachial artery severed before, and that took hours to bleed out in the snow. A human being will die within one minute from severe trauma to the abdominal aorta; for him, it will take significantly longer. It is in his file; the serum in his veins will slow his heartbeat, preserving vitality until the very end. Still, unconsciousness should be swift, and it is better than he deserves. 

He lifts the knife, and stabs it into his gut. 

*

When Steve approaches the facility, there are no tracks leading out. If Bucky had wanted to be gone, he would be. If he wanted to keep Steve from following him, he would have. 

In the beginning, he had. Then he started leaving notes behind- _DON’T GET IN MY WAY_. Aggressive, annoyed. Steve had gotten too close, once, and was thrown through a wall for his trouble. Then, the tone changed- _I’M NOT HIM. I HAVE TO DO THIS. LET ME GO._

The halls of this facility are leaking groundwater, and it occasionally pools on the concrete in small puddles. Only the occasional drip fills the silence. Steve starts to jog forward, Sam trailing behind him. Bucky is in here, somewhere. He’s letting Steve find him. It’s very quiet, and Steve’s breath starts coming faster. He turns the corner, and-

And Bucky is on the floor, and he’s-

“No,” Steve says, his voice far away. He hears Sam start running behind him, but Steve is already moving towards, towards the body, and he drops to the floor, blood on his hands as one smacks the concrete, the other pressing on Bucky’s abdomen as he drops his head to his chest and listens.

There’s something there, a faint swish of blood pumping, just enough for his hearing to pick up on. 

“Sam,” he says, lost. He looks up, and Sam is just standing there, watching him. 

“Cap,” he replies, soft. “It’s too much blood-“

“He’s alive,” he says, frantic, and it’s just enough to send the adrenaline rushing through his veins, eyes wide as he takes in the room. He sees the chamber, and he doesn’t think. He acts. 

He hauls Bucky into his arms. “I’m sorry,” he says, “I’m sorry,” and he’s barely aware of what he’s saying, he just sees the blood, and the chamber, and then he’s put his body inside and closed the door. And it works, thank god, it still works, crystals of ice rapidly forming to cover his body. 

He steps back, shaking, and sees the writing. Oh god. 

“I’m selfish,” he says, touching the chamber. “I’m so selfish.” 

Sam steps forward, slowly reaches a hand toward his shoulder. Steve startles anyway. 

“We- we have to, we need medical-“

“Steve,” Sam stops him, voice low and steady. “You’re in shock. Can you take a breath for me?” 

“Nat,” Steve chokes out. “We’re going to need help.” 

“It’s ok,” Sam says, taking out his phone. “It’s going to be ok.” His hand is a warm point on his shoulder, grounding. “I’ve got this.”


	2. Chapter 2

The cryo chamber lies in the center of the room, and Tony taps here and there, engaging the system’s controls. Doctor Helen Cho is standing by with a considering frown, head tilted towards Doctor Banner as he speaks in hushed tones. 

Natasha’s gaze flickers to the chamber every few seconds from the corner desk where she and Sam are sitting, carefully out of the way. Sam laughs at something she’s retelling, following the cue of her tight smile and a dramatic flick of her wrist. Steve knows he’s just playing along; she’s not fooling anyone, hasn’t been from the very beginning. She has some interest in Bucky, some connection she’s chosen not to tell. Steve knows this, but he respects her silence. He trusts her; it’s that simple. If and when she decides it is something he should be aware of, she will say so. 

“Ever been under anesthesia, Cap?” Tony says, breaking the library murmur of the room.

“Can’t say I have, exactly,” Steve replies as he refocuses his attention, a bit too slow. Tony nods. 

“I was there the first time you woke up,” he states, and Steve stares. 

“I don’t-“

“You wouldn’t,” Tony waves a hand. “If Barnes is anything like you were, it’s gonna be a gradual process. He’ll be confused. He might go into a coma in order to heal.” Tony taps a tattoo on the metal. “You were pretty messed up, the first time the doctors got their hands on you.” 

“Huh,” Steve says, cause he sure as hell doesn’t remember anything before that room in New York, and the baseball game. 

“Anesthesia is different, because you tend to remember bits and pieces,” Tony replies. The ice is slowly retreating from the interior of the chamber. “But that’s the closest I’ve got for you. That’s what it’s gonna be like.” 

Suddenly, Natasha is standing beside Steve, a whisper of fabric as she crosses her arms. She had come down to the base, taken one look at the cryo chamber, and called Tony. 

_“We have to take him somewhere secure,”_ she’d said to Steve, short. _“He won’t come easy.”_ She had looked pained for so brief a moment that Steve might have missed the expression, had he not known her. As much as anyone could know her, anyhow. 

The room is in the sub-basement, Hulk-proofed, medical equipment wheeled in and standing by. Natasha slips her hand into his for a brief squeeze, and he is grateful for her, for all of them. 

The chamber clicks, and slides open with a pneumatic hiss. 

“Ok, Sleeping Beauty,” Tony says, taking a step back, “time for your debut.”

Everything is silent for a few long minutes, and Steve lets out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding, feeling foolish. 

Tony frowns, stepping forward. “He should be-“ 

Bucky bursts from the chamber in one violent, lurching motion, and strikes Tony across the chest, sending him back several feet. His eyes are wild, unseeing, the wet strands of his hair obscuring his expression. The entire room reacts at once- Steve rushing to restrain Bucky, Bruce moving towards Tony, who is doubled over and waving him away- 

But Bucky has already dropped to the ground, his body shaking and jerking in unnatural spasms. Steve is frozen in place, but Dr. Cho has already brought over a pillow, and kneels to place it underneath Bucky’s head. She checks her watch. 

“What,” Steve says, helpless, moving down with her to the floor. 

“Seizure,” she says. “As long as it’s brief-“

And before she can finish speaking, the jerking stops, slow shivers left in its wake. Dr. Cho huffs out a sigh of relief. 

“Well,” Tony wheezes, “I wasn’t expecting that.” 

Steve’s hands are shaking, like they sympathize with the cold radiating from Bucky’s body. “Can I move him now?” he asks, and Dr. Cho nods. He gets one careful arm beneath Bucky’s shoulders, another under his knees, and walks him over to the bed a few feet away. 

“It’s incredible, really,” Dr. Cho remarks over Bucky's body while Dr. Banner nods. “The cold must have been just enough for the serum to halt the blood loss, even begin repairing tissue around the wound.” She pulls back the fabric from Bucky’s abdomen, inspecting. “He couldn’t have been defrosting for more than twenty minutes, conscious, for, seconds, and still the serum has already repaired the immediately life-threatening portions of the damage.” 

“Like it won’t let him die,” Steve says, soft. 

Tony is opening the mag cuffs carefully bolted into the reinforced bed, which is in turn bolted into the floor. Steve frowns unhappily, but Natasha moves from his side to open the opposite cuff, locking it around Bucky’s metal wrist. She pulls a small device from a nearby table and attaches it to the arm. The plates whirr, going slack. She looks up at Steve, and he nods back at her. 

Dr. Banner begins attaching various devices to Bucky’s body, glass screens becoming filled with readouts while Dr. Cho begins a blood transfusion. 

The readout gives three short beeps, and Dr. Banner is taking a few steps back. There’s a furrow between Bucky’s brows, a grimace on his lips, and he blinks several times, as if trying to clear his vision. He shakes his head, moving hair from his face, and one of his arms tugs on the cuffs. He freezes, and the monitors begin to beep steadily. He jerks towards the sound, surveying the equipment. 

“No,” he says, his voice cracking with horror. He starts to struggle against the cuffs. 

“Buck,” Steve says, trying to keep his voice calm and failing completely, “it’s ok-“

“No,” Bucky repeats in the same tone, his gaze settling on Steve, “no, Steve, _please_ , don’t do this-“

Dr. Banner has been quietly slipping a sedative into Bucky’s IV, and the line between Bucky’s brows starts to soften into confusion, then a soft sleep. 

Natasha has slipped her hand into Steve’s again, and is tugging gently. He follows where she leads, even when she takes him out of the room and into the corridor. 

“You don’t think,” he says haltingly, “that he might have been confused, that he just-“

She shakes her head decisively. “No. He was lucid.”

Steve nods. “What now?” 

“Dinner,” she informs him, and raises an eyebrow when he shakes his head. 

“I can’t leave him,” he replies, stubborn. 

“I already talked to Sam,” she says, walking towards the elevator. “He’ll keep an eye on him for us. He also promised to kick your ass if you tried to skip another meal.” She doesn’t look back when the elevator doors open. He follows. 

She rewards him with a gentle smile when he catches up. “He’ll be out for at least a few hours. Then comes the hard part.” She hits one of the buttons on the panel, moves in a rolling stretch to crack her spine as the elevator doors close. 

“Will you be sticking around?” Steve asks. 

She nods. “I’ll be here when he needs me.” 

*

When the soldier feels himself return to consciousness, he keeps his eyes closed, and hopes they will leave him alone. He can hear the steady breathing of two individuals, one seated, the other shuffling forward from approximately fifteen feet away. Something above his right ear begins to beep. 

“Buck?” says the voice to his left- Steven Grant Rogers- Steve- 

He used to talk to Steve, alone in his cell and scratching reminders into the grit of the stone floor. _“Remember when?”_ and _“who shoved the rods up these guy’s asses anyway?_ ” and _“god Stevie, I just stared at that wall from lunch till dinner, don’t even remember the time passing, hope you never see me like this, but you’re the only person I think of when I’m lonely.”_

He’d never thought he’d had much hope that Steve and the Howlies would come rescue him- they thought he was dead, and damn well they should. Anyone human would’ve died from the swan dive he took. But when they’d told him Steve was dead, shown him, he’d curled up in the corner and rocked himself till they came to hurt him again. He learned to let them; hurt less if he didn’t fight, wasn't like there was anyone to expect anything more of him. 

Didn’t take long after that for there to be no Steve to talk to. Some fool part of his brain had clung to the sustaining belief that _this, too, shall pass_ , that one day he’d walk on concrete covered in gum instead of days-old sweat, he’d joke and people would love him, they’d laugh with him and put an arm around his shoulder and his body wouldn’t feel like a chain- 

“Hey,” the voice says, gentle. “Buck, can you let me know if you can hear me?” 

He opens his eyes. Steve is there, real, and he can see the individual hairs on his head, the way his hands open and close in his lap. A man with dark, curling hair lingers in the background, looking at him over a pair of glasses. The soldier tracks his movements, and the metal arm clangs against the cuff. Steve’s face twists. 

“Are you in any pain?” Steve prompts, and the soldier blinks. There is an ache in his gut that intensifies with every breath, a deep soreness in each of his muscles that seems to radiate down into his bones, and the metal socket has been hurting more lately, something wrong where the metal moves against bone. The white sterility of the bright room causes his eyes pain, intensifies the ache in his head, and his feet burn where circulation is attempting to repair itself. 

“Buck?” Steve frowns. “We can up your pain medication, it’s hard for the doctors to know how your body processes it.” 

The soldier stares at the other man in the room, the doctor. The man won’t meet his eyes, smiles oddly down at the floor, like he’s shy. The soldier imagines the man moving closer, administering whatever medication he deems fit. 

“No,” the soldier says, his voice like gravel. 

“Ok,” Steve nods, easy. He stands up and motions the doctor to him, whispers to him for a moment, and then the doctor leaves the room. It’s only Rogers, the soldier, and the soft sounds of the medical equipment echoing in the empty space. 

“D’you think you can eat something?” Steve says suddenly, and the Soldier jerks at the sound of his voice, cuffs clinking. 

“Yes,” the soldier says automatically, because he is able, yes, and that is the correct answer. 

Steve smiles. “Good, that’s good.” The soldier feels relief, something he can’t define. Steve turns, and there’s the sound of sealed plastic being pulled apart. He turns back, producing a sandwich, and a couple of pills. 

“Doctors said you were malnourished.” He flattens the palm of the hand holding the pills, and produces a glass of water. “Vitamins,” he explains. 

The soldier doesn’t need the explanation. It doesn’t matter. He will do as he is told. They’ll find a less pleasant way to administer them if they need to, he is sure. He opens his mouth, and Steve frowns. 

“I can’t-“ Steve looks towards the doorway, then back, and suddenly the warmth of his hand is surrounding the soldier’s right wrist. He flinches. The metal cuff snaps open, and Steve hands him the water. The soldier tries to take a drink, and ends up coughing violently. He drops the glass, and it shatters on the floor. He starts to shake. 

Steve’s brows knit together, and the soldier ducks away, hair falling over his face like a curtain, useless and soothing. 

“Buck, it’s ok, it’s just a glass.” Steve produces another, goes to the tap to fill it up and brings it back, his mouth an unhappy line of concern. “I’m sorry, I should’ve started with ice.”

The apology startles the soldier so much that the shaking stops. He takes the proffered glass in a weak grip, and manages to drink, closing his eyes in relief. When he opens them, Steve has a hand extended to take the glass, refills it, and offers the pills. The soldier swallows them at once without asking. 

Steve hands him the sandwich in small pieces, explaining where they are (Stark Tower, New York), what the doctors are doing (blood, fluids, scans), and what his tests have said (malnutrition, abnormal electrical activity, an assortment of healing wounds). The soldier is only half listening, because he is fighting the roil of nausea in his gut that grows with each bite. He loses the battle, feels the heave in his chest as he bends over, tears of shame prickling at his eyes-

_“Fuck! I’m not cleaning that up.” A hand fisting in his hair, pushing him towards the floor. “It makes a mess, it cleans it up.” He starts licking before they give the order._

“Bucky!” Steve shouts, and the soldier flinches away. “Are you ok?”

The soldier feels a flare of anger, because he doesn’t know how the fuck to answer that question. He stays stubbornly silent. It feels like an achievement. 

“Well, the clothes needed to be changed anyway, huh?” Steve says, a bit too bright, moving away in order to produce a cotton t-shirt and flannel-patterned drawstring pants. Steve looks down at him, that sad frown back on his lips, and shakes his head decisively.

“The others won’t be too happy with me, but I can’t keep you like this.” Steve unlocks the other cuff. 

The soldier raises his arms mechanically, flesh arm supporting the sluggish metal. “Where would I go?” he intones, and Steve's frown is back. His hands are gentle when they pull the ripped, bloodstained material from the soldier’s torso, gentle with the bottle of disinfectant and a sponge he pulls to clear the clotted blood and caked grime. The soldier feels the room fade as he empties, the hands- hand- on his torso- all over- 

“Bucky?” Steve is saying, and the soldier realizes his hands have retreated, that the new shirt has already been put on. The soldier looks up. Steve shuffles in place, and pushes the boxers and pants closer. It’s a few long moments before he realizes Steve means he wants the soldier to put them on. He stands as best he can, mechanically dropping his clothes. Steve turns away, but not before the soldier sees the corners of the frown tugging, deepening. 

“When you got sick, threw up the sandwich,” Steve hedges, “is that something that, that happens a lot?”

The soldier nods. 

“Why’d you let me give it to you?” 

“I could, eat it,” the soldier stumbles, “I thought-“ he shakes again, can’t seem to stop it now. He risks a glance back at Steve, whose hand reaches forward, then stops, grips the bed white-knuckled. 

“I’m sorry,” Steve says. “I’m so sorry.” He drops his head, hunches in on himself. “I should have been there for you. I knew you thought you were sparin' me what you'd been through with Zola. I knew you didn't tell Colonel Phillips everything. I just didn't know how to-“ he chokes. “It’s all my fault. You should have gone home. But you came when I asked, and I let you, because I’m so goddamned selfish. And then I left you in hell to suffer-“ 

Steve is crying now, like he can't make himself stop. It hurts the soldier to watch him struggle to keep his sobs under control, hurts the part of him that is and always will be Bucky Barnes. He knows what to do, like he knows how to breathe deep and steady himself to fire on the exhale. He reaches for Steve’s hand, runs his fingers over the white knuckles until they relax. 

“Steve,” he says hoarsely dredging up the right words from god knows where, "it's not your fault. You couldn't have stopped them.” Steve looks back at him, fierce, and god does he know that expression in his bones. 

“Then nothing they made you do was your fault, either," Steve replies, stubborn as hell. Bucky knows better than to argue.


	3. Chapter 3

“I was worried about that,” Doctor Banner mutters.

“Hm,” Tony Stark says, tilting his head. 

The soldier feels small under the full force of their attention, lying reclined in bed while they stand above him. It makes him twitchy. He taps the dead fingers of his metal hand with his flesh one, up and up until he reaches the disabling device. He looks up, asking permission. 

“Juicers, trial and error,” Stark is saying to Dr. Banner, then notices the soldier. “Yeah, sure champ, just give it a good yank. Try not to murder anyone in your sleep.” 

The soldier does. It pings when it hits the floor, and he has to keep himself from smiling with satisfaction. He sits up and rotates the arm for a reset, ending the motion with a sharp jerk, and is soothed by the whirr of metal plates testing and realigning. 

“Well, that’s fucking intimidating,” Stark says bluntly.

Steve is sitting in the background, attentive but clearly doing his best not to hover. “Can someone translate?”

Doctor Cho comes back with a list she transfers from her tablet to one of the larger glass screens. “He’s been on a strictly controlled diet for quite some time, likely due to the effects of repeated freezing on his digestive system. We're working on a diet plan.”

Steve winces. 

The soldier clears his throat. “It-“ he sounds hoarse, oddly pitched. Everyone in the room has turned to stare at him, and he realizes he’s spoken before he was prompted. To a room of technicians, who have him locked down- he’s not so naïve as to think the mag cuffs are the extent of their security measures. He grips the bed rail to keep himself from panicking. Except he grabs with the left hand, and it snaps like a twig. 

“Yeah, Barnes?” Stark says, and the soldier realizes he’s being casual to make him feel at ease. Even with the line of bruises across his ribs he was rewarded with the last time he got too close. 

“Easier, to,” he manages, “keep control of someone who will starve to death, if he decides to try to escape.” His flat tone changes into something bitter, even angry, and it makes him feel good even as it terrifies him. He twists the metal of the broken rail in his left hand. 

The room is completely quiet for a few long seconds. Then Stark snorts, pointing to the bed rail. “Yeah, you just play with that. Not like it was reinforced. Jesus, you are twisting that thing like a pretzel. Ok.” Tony moves across the room in a sudden dash, and the soldier startles. Stark comes back with a large blender. 

“Steven,” Stark says, “what the good doctors are saying is this one,” he points to the soldier, “gets his three squares in liquid form from now until they say so.” He turns to face the soldier. “Listen, honestly, I’m not sure what to call you and I want to get it right. Do you prefer Barnes or Winter?”

The soldier thinks back to when Stark had thought he was asleep and rambled about _America’s torrid love affair with the commie assassin_ , which had made Steve at least ten kinds of uncomfortable. 

“The Red Menace,” he snaps back, and Stark chokes. 

“That- was a joke,” Stark says. “I didn’t know he could do that.” 

“Barnes is fine,” the soldier allows. It's not untrue; Barnes is becoming more and more persistent. 

The entrance to the room slides open with a soft hiss, and a familiar redhead moves in to lean casually against the far wall. 

“Natalia?” the soldier says, wondering. 

“It’s Natasha now,” she corrects, but there’s a hesitant smile on her lips. “James. It’s been a while.” 

The soldier nods, keeps staring. 

Stark clears his throat. “The plot thickens."

“It okay if we leave you two alone, Buck?” Steve asks. Stark huffs. The soldier nods. 

Natasha leans up on her toes to kiss Steve on the cheek before he goes, and he blushes nicely. As soon as the doors shut, her expression falls to a hard neutral. 

“So,” she says. 

The soldier can feel James' memories and emotions returning, more easily than Barnes'. He has less distance, less trauma between himself and James. “I’m sorry, Natal-Natasha,” the soldier grimaces, checking her over with his eyes, lingering on her shoulder, her hip. “I-.“ She waves him away before he can say anything else. 

“You were damn determined to keep me out of my bikini,” she drawls, and comes closer, feet light, movements fluid. 

“You got away, though,” the soldier says, proud. “You’ve done so well, Natasha.” 

She ducks her head, and he doesn’t think it’s a ploy. When she raises it again, her neutral expression is as steady as ever. “We were the only ones who did,” she says, matter-of-fact. 

“I’m not sure I count,” he replies honestly, and she tilts her head. 

“Who are you, really?” she asks, open. “I won’t tell Steve anything he doesn’t need to know.” 

The soldier looks over at one of the steadily blinking screens. “When I can think straight, well.” He gathers his words. “I’m not sure I know. I remember... most of it. There’s some parts I think I might never get back. But I remember- you, the Red Room. Training. Our mission. And then,” he rubs a hand across his face, “At the same time I remember him, Bucky.”

“Do you want me to call you that?” Natasha says, soft. 

The soldier shrugs. “’S good as any. See, like that. I remember how he talked, and it never went away, it was so natural, cropped up whenever I spoke English. But-“ he sighs. “It’s hard, to be him. They took so much from him. I feel sorry for him, mostly.”

Natasha hums. “You have his memories, his feelings. I don’t know what that’s like.”

“Is it easier?” he asks, because he knows she will be honest, as far as she is able. 

Natasha shakes her head with a small smile. “I doubt it. If I had what you had- if I’d been someone, outside of what they trained me to be- I’d fight to hold on to that person.” 

The soldier nods. “I did.” 

They’re quiet for a moment. 

“You tried to kill yourself,” she says blunt as ever. The soldier sighs. 

“Natasha, I’ve done some terrible things. Things I can’t, live with,” he starts. 

“So, you deserve to die?” she says. He is quiet. “Do I deserve to die?” she asks, like she really is curious. “Plenty of people say so. Do you think they’re right?” 

“Natasha,” the solider says, aghast. 

“I’ve killed innocent people,” she says. “I’ve hurt people in ways they will never recover from. Torn apart families. I’ve tortured. I allowed a child to be killed.” 

“Natasha, stop,” the soldier says, firm. “I know how they conditioned you, tortured you,” he spat, “for all those years-“ but she is just looking at him, steady. 

“What makes you special?” she says, and he can’t answer her. “You can live with it. We’ll all die some day, anyway.”

“I deserve it,” he challenges, but she only shrugs. 

“Some people might deserve to die. Some children die of cancer. That’s not how it works, who deserves to live and who deserves to die.” She waves a hand, tossing away that line of reasoning. “When it’s your time, it’s your time. And it’s not your time, not yet. You’re getting another chance, if you can stand to take it.” 

“I don’t even know what I am,” he admits. 

“Only one way to find out,” she says, droll. “Though I think, you might be surprised how much of Bucky Barnes you are. Try it, see if it fits. If not,” she spreads her hands, “put on someone else.” 

He smiles, because that is the Natasha he knew. “I missed you,” he says, and it’s true, even if for years he didn’t know it. 

“It’s about time,” she returns, brave. “Steve- he really loves you, you know. Complete mess.”

The soldier- Barnes- nods. “I know,” he says, soft. “Bucky- I love him, too. Thanks for keeping him alive for me.” 

She snorts, and moves to sit on the bed. “Wasn’t easy.”

“Self-preservation instinct of a lemming,” he agrees. She leans forward when he doesn’t shift away, presses a kiss to his forehead. Her nose wrinkles. 

“You smell terrible,” she complains. 

He huffs. “Well, you try getting decades of your memory back at once, taking out the people trying to hunt you down, starving, having goddamn seizures while your brain tries to knit itself together, apparently-“

“Da, da,” she says, eyeing his hair. “I will bring you shampoo.” She moves away, and he darts a hand out to grab her wrist before he thinks the action through. She lets herself be caught, which is nice of her, though she raises an eyebrow at him. 

“Sorry,” he stutters, “I just. Can you stay, for a little bit?” _I feel braver when you’re here_ , he doesn’t say. _I get lost when I'm alone. It was easier when I was going to let myself die. I don’t know what to do next._

“I suppose,” she says, but she gives his hand a little squeeze.


	4. Chapter 4

_Natalia glides over the ice like she is dancing, long red hair fanning out behind her as she twirls. It’s mesmerizing to watch- she was always graceful, as long as he’d known her. Grace had been instilled in her until it became route, until she took it for her own-_

_She catches sight of him, and suddenly she is closer- or he has moved forward, and her hair is shorter, brushing her shoulders as she smiles at him._

_“James,” she says, and now she is above him, and he is below her, under the ice- she leans down and gives it a sharp rap, but it doesn’t sound like ice, it sounds like metal-_

_“James,” the ice cracks, and he is gasping, the air like needles in his lungs, burning its way down his throat, “James, time to wake up-“_

_He’s in his cell, gasping- he’s been trying to be quiet, but he can’t help gasping now, his feet kick automatically, the animal instinct to survive, to struggle-_

_He hears the click of the bolt in his cell door, and he can’t help it, he starts crying, is still crying when the man comes over and slices the makeshift noose (his pants; they hadn’t given him bed sheets, a mattress with springs, a pair of shoelaces). And he’s abruptly smacking the ground, doesn’t even flinch when the man above him spits in his face._

_One kick in the stomach, four booted kicks to the ribs before one cracks, and then he’s been flattened to the ground, the man’s weight on top of him. He feels a knife blade slicing neatly down his back, and he freezes. The man pulls Bucky’s shirt off in one rough movement._

_“We save your life,” the man says in heavily accented English, Bucky can’t quite place it, “we give you nice things, and you don’t want them. Fine.” The man lifts the elastic of his boxers, tears through them with the knife, and suddenly Bucky is completely bare underneath him. He goes very still, his heart beating fast, and he is far too alive when the man grinds down on him._

_“You and your Captain killed my comrades. My brothers. You want to die? Death is too good for you.” The man grips the stump, digs his fingernails beneath the bandage, and the agony is blinding, he’s screaming but his throat his too damaged, and he’s blacking out-_

_The pain stops, and the man is slapping him across the face. “So soon? No. That is also too good for you.” The man is reaching a hand between them, and Bucky hears a zipper, and closes his eyes. “If you live forever, you will never suffer enough for what you have done.”_

_When it’s over, he’s still in the cell, still alive, but now he has nothing but the bandage around the stump and the fading memory of a dead friend._

_There is a rap on the bars, and he jerks up, looking the man in the eyes._

_“You know,” the man says thoughtfully, as if something has just occurred to him, “they say torture is ineffective, but I think it depends on the goal of the tormentor. I think Dr. Zola will be quite satisfied with the results.” Bucky starts shaking, involuntary, and the man smiles._

_“Bucky?” Steve’s voice says, and that’s not right, he wasn’t talking to Steve anymore, because Steve was dead._

There is a hand on his shoulder, pressing, and he jolts awake all at once, the monitors going wild. 

“What?” the soldier growls, just only keeping himself from attacking Steve on instinct. 

“You okay, Buck?” Steve asks, concerned, and lifts his hand carefully away.

“Yeah,” the soldier grits out, “’M fine.” 

Steve stares at him, unconvinced. “You know, if you want, you can talk to me. About anything.” 

“Nothing to talk about,” he grunts. “Your friend just has some really fucked up memories.” 

Steve gives him a measured look. “Buck,” he says, soft enough to really rile him up, “those things, your memories- they happened to you. It’s ok to-“ 

“Fuck you,” the soldier growls, and he can feel the dangerous line of his shoulders, getting ready to spring. “You think you can bring him back just because you want him? That you can bring me back from the fucking _dead_ , over and over until you get what you want out of me?” He’s sitting up, and Steve takes a step back. “You’re no fucking better than them!” and he’s screaming now, he can’t stop, “You think you’re going to make it all better,” he taunts, “because what, because you fucking _love_ him, because you think you know me?” Steve is pale, shaking, and the soldier feels a vindictive sense of glee. “I’m worse than dead, I’m-“ 

The doors slide open. 

“Hello boys,” Natasha drawls. “I brought shampoo.” 

Steve jumps a bit, shakes himself. “I’ll go,” he offers. The soldier’s righteous anger crumples, and this isn’t what he wanted-

Natasha follows Steve out, and the soldier lies back to stare up at the ceiling, blood pounding, slowing, settling. 

*

Natasha grabs his shoulder, and Steve ducks away, because he’s crying, and god he hates it, hates to be seen like this. She stands there, waits. 

“You hear that?” he asks, and she nods. 

“I asked Jarvis to call me.”

“He’s right,” Steve says, doing his best to keep his voice steady and mostly failing, “everything he said.” But Natasha is shaking her head. 

“He cussed you out,” she says, and she doesn’t sound very concerned. He just stares at her. “’You’re no fucking better than them?’” she quotes. “If he thought you were anything like them, he’d be quiet. By the time he was in the Red Room, he’d learned how to placate them. He was too afraid to do anything else.” She gives him a pat on the shoulder. “He might be scared, but he’s not afraid of you,” she says. “Give him time.” 

“You’ve never told me about that,” he returns. “About the Red Room.”

“No, I didn’t,” she says. “Go hit the gym, Steve. I’ll come find you later.” 

*

When Natasha returns, she gives him a once-over. He glares back, stubborn. 

“Shower,” she orders, and he swings his legs over the side of the bed. 

“Fine,” he growls, and she isn’t nearly as intimidated as she should be. She walks away, out of the doors and down a corridor, expecting him to follow. Which, of course, he does, no matter how badly his legs shake. 

They enter a bathroom with a tub and shower, sparsely decorated but as clean as the medical room. She points down at the tub, and he balks. 

“I can take a fucking shower,” he grunts, and she crosses her arms. 

“Don’t be stupid,” she replies. “You can barely stand.” 

He snatches the shampoo and turns on the shower. He strips efficiently with his back turned, and _wow_ he can smell himself. It isn’t pleasant. He steps into the shower and tugs the curtain closed behind him a little too violently. Two of the rungs tear from the curtain, leaving a corner dangling. 

He gets about thirty seconds in before the trembling in his legs intensifies, and by the time he decides he needs to sit down his legs are already collapsing beneath him. His ass hits the bottom of the tub with a resounding _thud_. 

Natasha knocks on the shower curtain, her fist appearing and disappearing through the translucent material. 

“Fine. You happy?” the soldier grumbles, and the curtain rolls back. 

“Вы будучи ребенком*,” she chides, and stoppers the drain. She flicks a metal switch on the wall, and the water moves from the shower head down to the faucet. Blissfully warm water surrounds him on all sides, soothing his aching muscles, and he finds he cannot stay angry for long. He leans back and shuts his eyes. When cracks them open, Natasha is squirting shampoo into the stream of water, filling the tub with bubbles. 

“That’s a waste of resources,” he comments. 

She hums. “It is, isn’t it?” She squirts an entirely unnecessary amount of shampoo into the water, and the bubbles triple in density. Finally, she shuts off the tap, and assesses him with a cool gaze. 

“Get your hair wet,” she orders, and he shuffles back until his head is in the water and his knees are in the air. He surfaces and shakes his head like a dog, splatting her. She does not look amused. 

“Lean back,” she commands, and he does, his head fitting into what seems to be an ergonomic curve for exactly this purpose. She drizzles shampoo into his hair and starts to work it into a lather, the blunt edges of her fingernails scraping over his scalp, and he makes a noise that is definitely not a whimper. She works carefully through the ends of his hair, untangling knots until he is completely blissed out. If she decides to murder him while he has his guard down, well. What a way to go. 

“Did you mean it?” she asks, and he gives her an annoyed grunt at the forced return to cognitive functioning. 

“What?”

“’You’re no fucking better than them?’” she quotes in a parody of his voice.

“I-,” he starts, ready to defend himself, but is abruptly flooded with shame. “No,” he says softly.

She rubs the shampoo through the soft hairs at the base of his neck, a reminder- _I’m not angry. I won’t hurt you._ “Do you know how many punching bags Steve has already destroyed?”

“I get it,” he says, but the remorse is there in his voice now. 

“It’s ok,” she replies. “Apologize. It’s not his fault he reminds you of who you are.” 

He twists until her fingers retreat, because that’s not right. “Hey,” he says, accusatory.

“What,” she returns, flat. “You’re going to tell me you’re the Winter Soldier? Because you’re not acting like him. Not around Steve, not around me.” She cleans her hands off in the water. “You do act like James, though, when he was far enough away from a wipe. And James was an awful lot like Bucky Barnes.” She hands him a bar of soap. “Rinse well. I worked hard on that.” She retreats to the corner of the room, turns to give him privacy. He ducks back into the water. 

“Come up here when you’re done," she calls. "I need to brush out the tangles.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *"You're being a child." At least, that's what google translate tells me.
> 
> Ok, story time. Settle in, children. Good. 
> 
> After I had top surgery my boyfriend at the time pointed me to the tub and came at me with washcloths and I was like "I can bathe myself!!" and he raised an eyebrow but didn't argue cause he knew that was pointless so he let me try and my hand was shaking so bad he finally snatched it from me and gave me this look like "just calm down and let me rub down your smelly shower deprived body, god" and i was like "fucking fine whatever I could still do it myself." No, I could not. I could not do it myself.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> dead dove: cruelty to animals

“Okay, yep, we’re done here. I’ve triple-checked that you’re not rigged to detonate, and the docs tell me you’re no longer in danger of major organ failure.”

The soldier stares at Stark, waiting for further instruction. He’d taken the pills they’d given him, eaten what they told him to, and, most recently, held out his metal arm for an inspection that involved dismantling it piece by piece. He withdrew the arm now, flexing and testing the servos, which of course ran even more smoothly than before. Stark had an ego the size of his building, but it was backed up pretty well by his work, damn him. 

“I mean, unless you’re attached to this particular room,” Stark is babbling, “but it’s a little stark down here, don’t you think?” Stark snorts. “Pun. Unintentional.” 

“I- don’t understand. I apologize,” the soldier says, even though he’s had enough of people touching him for the next few days and really just wants to tell the technician to fuck off. 

“Ok, I’ll spell it out,” Stark says, and thank fucking god for that, “you have a room with a real mattress waiting for you. I’ll even let you put nails in the walls. How’s that sound?”

“I don’t understand,” the soldier replies, automatic, trying to make sense of it.

Stark looks at the ceiling, _god grant me the patience_ , “Listen, I know they scrambled your brain pretty good, but the latest scans tell us your super-soldierly abilities are doing a decent job of taking care of that, plus I’ve been reliably informed that you can speak in complete sentences.” 

“No, I’m sorry, I just,“ the soldier tries to pull forward Barnes, who knows how to handle this, who can talk and joke and laugh like he’s a person. “Why?”

Stark powers down the medical equipment. “Bucky Bear. This isn’t a test. There’s no coded message.” He extends a hand, and Bucky takes it, stands. It’s only been about a week, and he’s nearly back to normal functioning. 

“Why don’t we make this easy?” Stark suggests. “I show you your room, you say thank you, I say no problem.” And with that, he starts walking. 

“You’re a technician,” the soldier blurts, and gee, thanks Barnes, that was very helpful. 

Tony pivots on one heel and gasps, clutching his pearls. “I am a goddamn engineer. I also accept genius.” He shakes his head. “Technician,” he mutters. “I bring you into my home, and you insult me.” 

The soldier feels his hands shake. He is too goddamned stressed and exhausted to keep this up, feels his expression going blank. 

Tony raises his hands, palms out, obviously noticing that something’s up. “I’m joking, I’m- Steve. You like Steve. He’s already up there. Let’s go meet him.” 

The soldier nods and follows him, socked feet sliding on the elevator tile. Stark fiddles with his phone. The soldier does not understand his motives. His friendship with Steve Rogers cannot explain it. Not after what the soldier has done.

“Stark. Your parents-“

Stark chokes. “Wow, this is a fun venue for that conversation. How ‘bout we cut to the chase? Consider yourself absolved.”

It hits him harder that he thought, and he’s shocked to feel himself tearing up. He attributes it to being Way Past His Fucking Limit. “I can’t-”

Stark puts his phone away. “No, listen, I’m being serious now. I know what torture does. I’m aware of what is probably a fraction of what they did to you. That’s all. You’re absolved.” He shifts from foot to foot, watching the LED display of the floors they’re passing like a cat eyeing a laser. 

The soldier is quiet the rest of the way, and when they reach their floor Stark practically falls out of the doors. “Steve!” he greets enthusiastically. “I’m going to leave Tall, Dark, and Stabby here with you, ok? Take care of him for me, make sure he gets fed. People to see, tech to revolutionize, and all that.” 

Steve is frowning at Stark. “You okay, Buck?” 

“Stark,” the soldier says before the man can dash back to the elevator. Stark turns, waits. 

“Thank you,” the soldier says, sincere. Stark turns. “And, if you want,” he continues, Stark’s head turning to look back over his shoulder, “my friends call me Bucky.” 

Stark gives him a surprised smile, then a thumbs up. “Alright, Bucky Bear. If you need anything, let JARVIS know. I’m a very busy man.” The elevator doors start to slide shut, but he catches them. “If that arm gives you any problems, though, I'll fit you in.” The doors do shut this time, and Bucky surveys the room. 

Steve is giving him a dopey smile. Christ, Rogers. “There’s… a whole kitchen,” Bucky notes. “It has a dishwasher. I can’t even eat.” 

Steve walks over, picks up the blender, and opens some cabinets. “Doctor's orders,” he points to a list on the fridge, held up by a StarkIndustries magnet. “At least this many calories per day, uh, recipes for breakfast, lunch, dinner, and snacks, shakes get thicker ‘till you should be able to do solid food.” He opens a cabinet. “Cups, and,” he pulls a crazy straw out of a drawer, “not sure about this, to be honest, but I assume it’s Stark’s doing.”

Bucky moves to inspect the rest of the apartment. There’s a door to the bathroom, which he ignores for now, and a door to a bedroom. The bed is already turned down, fitted with soft-looking sheets and a navy blue comforter. 

“Mine?” Bucky points, and Steve nods, following him in. 

Steve opens the drawers of the dresser, pointing out socks, t-shirts, underwear, rambling on about colors and having Jarvis order something else. He fiddles with one of the knobs and looks back up at Bucky standing there, pauses in his wonder, and Bucky feels a sharp pang that is terrifying enough to be love.

Bucky goes and sits on the bed, back leaning on the headboard. He groans and closes his eyes for a moment, then pats the space next to him. Steve sits gingerly, careful not to touch him, and Bucky opens his eyes. 

“I remember,” Bucky says, and Steve sucks in a sharp breath. “I remember near everything. I remember us. And what I said, the other day,” he shakes his head. “That was fucked up. It wasn’t about you, and I shouldn’t have taken it out on you, okay? I’m sorry.” 

Steve is shaking his head, looking away, his jaw set. “No, Buck, you don’t have to apologize. You were right,” and Bucky recognizes that self-hatred so well he’s being transported back decades. “I wasn’t thinking, when I found you, and I made a choice that was damn selfish, that maybe you didn’t want.” Steve’s ducking to hide his expression. “I’m not gonna be your prison guard, Buck. If you go,” Steve stops for a minute, clears his throat. “I won’t let anyone stop you.” Steve’s trying so hard to be brave, to do the right thing. 

Bucky groans, covers his face with his hands. “Do you think,” he mumbles, “just once, you could stop trying to be a goddamned martyr?” Steve looks at him, surprised. “Take the apology, punk. I was being an ass. I can’t promise I’m not going to say shit like that again, because I’m really fucked up, up to my neck in it. I don’t know what I’m gonna do. But it’s not your fault. You did the same thing I woulda done, if our situations were reversed.” 

Steve nods stiffly, and Bucky knows Steve thinks he’s trying to placate him, that the words have been repeating themselves over and over in Steve's mind ‘till he’s made himself sick with it. He shakes his head, because he can’t undo it, doesn’t know how to make it better. If he does end up offing himself, he doesn’t want to leave Steve like this. 

“I’m not making any decisions,” he says, exhausted. “’Cept that I’m falling asleep on this bed right now.” He shuffles down until his head is on a pillow that makes him feel like he’s floating. “Good night.” 

Steve shifts off the bed. “I’ll be outside,” he says, and leaves the door cracked behind him. 

*

Bucky startles awake to a light pressure on his chest, automatically raising his arm to fling it away, and he’s half awake when he hears the yowl of distress, cracks his eyes open to see the cat’s eyes shining in the dark-

_One minute he’s in the corner petting the cat, then the next there's a gunshot; barely made a sound with the silencer, like it hadn't even happened, and the cat- it doesn’t die right away, it screams, and._

_The others looked up from their post-mission bantering to where the soldier is frantically running a hand over the cat, the metal one, and he snatches it away, because he can’t touch the cat with that hand, he might hurt it, but the cat is already dead. He looks up, and Nelson is smiling lazily, gun in hand._

_“Why?” the soldier asks, confused. It hadn’t been part of the mission. It was senseless. He didn’t understand._

_“Aw look at it,” Nelson says, “I made it sad.” He puts the weapon down. “No witnesses, Asset,” he says, mocking, like he’s talking to a child. “Come here.”_

Steve bursts into the room, and Bucky is shaking. “The- the cat,” he chokes out, “did I-“

Steve looks half-awake, his brow furrowed, looking around the room. “I don’t-“

And Bucky can feel the shaking turning into jerking, going past the point of no return, he can’t stop it, he’s trapped in his body and he can’t stop it-

*

“It’s okay, Buck,” Steve is saying, “you’re ok, it’s over now.”

“The cat,” he blurts out as soon as he comes back to consciousness, but Steve already has her in his big, gentle arms. She looks a bit ruffled, but unharmed. 

“She’s a cat, Buck. She landed on her feet. She’s fine.” Steve still looks concerned. “Doctor Cho said this might still happen. Your brain’s still healing, and, well, she can’t say anything for sure. But she thinks it’ll get better, probably even stop. You just have to give it time.” 

Bucky nods, because he vaguely remembers her saying so on his second day at the tower, but now her words hold more weight. “Ok,” he sighs. 

Steve shoos the cat away, and she lopes off like she hadn’t cared for him in the first place, graceful and dignified. “I’m sorry, she’s Nat’s cat, follows me sometimes when she’s away. Shoulda kept a better eye on her.” 

“Natasha has a cat?” Bucky sits up, rubbing his temples. 

Steve smiles. “Well, it was Clint’s cat. Or, at least he kept feeding her, and she kept showing up. But she hated him. Fell in love with Natasha, or so Clint tells me. He got tired of the cat scratching the door every time Natasha left, so he carted her here and dumped her in Natasha’s room. She threatened him, but, well. She bought a couple of bowls and a litterbox.” 

“Huh,” Bucky says, because now he thinks he’s more tired than he was when he first fell asleep. He lays back down on the pillow. “Night,” he grumbles. 

“Morning,” Steve corrects, and it sure is, pre-dawn light peeking through the window. “I’m going for a run.”

“Ugh,” Bucky weighs in, turning on his side. “Who’s keeping an eye on me while you’re gone?”

“What?” Steve replies, looking horribly guilty. 

“Someone needs to teach you how to lie,” Bucky returns, “it’s a wonder you haven’t been killed yet with that face of yours. Though I’m gonna go out on a limb and say your style is more charging in the front door.” 

Steve shrugs, which says enough. “JARVIS. He’s monitoring. But only for situations where you are a danger to yourself or others.” 

Bucky nods. “Good.” 

Steve is still standing there. 

“Go,” he orders. “Take the cat.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ah shit i keep making tense errors my b


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> dead dove warning: disordered eating, brief depiction of self-harm, attempted f/m rape (not involving main characters, not completed)  
> let me know if I miss any tw's you think are relevant

_Beep. Beep. Beep._

_He wires the bomb, easy enough, sets it, sits on the roof of the building a block over to confirm the kill. The entire apartment, his handler had said, all of the occupants had to go. He’d been given the time, and the coordinates. He’s done his job well. Sometimes, if he does well, they don’t hurt him. Sometimes, they even praise him._

_When they punish him, they tell him “order through pain.” When they praise him, they tell him he has created order. A better world, a peaceful world._

_He looks through the scope of his rifle, views the occupants. A man, his wife, sitting on a couch. They are looking down, laughing. He swings a millimeter down, to the left and. There are two children on the floor, in costume, putting on a show. There are thirty seconds left on the timer, and he is up and running, mindless of being seen. He cannot get there in time, is unsure why he is running. Logic does not factor in this action._

_“Солдат , получить свою задницу на крыше!” his handler barks over the speaker, tinny and distant. The apartment blows and the soldier collapses, strings cut._

_He is still there when the extraction team arrives, shouting at him, pissed. The soldier lets them take him, moves when they order, does not duck away from his handler’s open-palm slap. He has done his job. He will still be punished._

_He remembers this, that they will always come for him. He is a valuable asset. He will not be killed with a bomb or a bullet._

_At least he will be wiped._

Beep. Beep. Beep. 

It's the damn lunch alarm Doctor Cho set up. He shuffles off of the couch, pulls out the ingredients on the list for today, stuffs them in the blender. The smoothie is pink, like-

_The tulle, on the little girl’s dress, like she’s a princess-_

He dumps half of the smoothie down the drain, and it feels right, like control. Order. 

_Order through pain,_ he thinks with a bitter smile. 

No one is looking over his shoulder, so does the same at dinner. And every meal he can, thereafter. His stomach burns and aches. It feels like the beginning of penance. 

*

Three days after he’s settled into his apartment, constantly batting off people showing up on his floor, he feels the walls start to close in on him. He opens the curtains. He paces. 

It’s comfortable. It’s a kindness he sure as hell doesn’t deserve. It feels like a cell. 

He makes it all the way down to the back entrance, opens the door, and walks five feet before the light, noise, and current of foot traffic makes him shake like a leaf. He barely makes it back inside, lights dazzling in front of his eyes, head pounding. It hurts like hell, but he doesn’t seize. Hasn’t for at least a day, now that he thinks about it. 

He ends up on Natasha’s floor- he doesn’t remember telling JARVIS where he wanted to go, and he has a feeling JARVIS chose for him. 

He’s bent over with his head in his hands when she gives him a small cup of coffee. "Drink carefully," she tells him, "but you should be able to stomach it now."

He can’t. He’s bent over the toilet, throwing up, and she pulls the hair away from his eyes, gathers it behind his neck. She’s apologizing profusely, and he feels a wash of shame. He knows why he can’t keep it down. 

When he makes it back to the couch and lies down, she’s taken the armchair. The cat hops up and curls into her lap. She pets it steadily, eliciting a deep purr while the cat stretches and flexes its claws. 

“Hello, kotyonok,” she smiles at the cat. The cat closes its eyes, rolls onto its side. She stops petting and the cat headbutts her, demanding affection. She resumes. “Good girl,” she tells her with a firm nod. 

“If only we were all like Kotik,” she comments. 

“You named your cat Cat?” he grunts. 

She shrugs. “Go outside at dark,” she suggests. “Less noise. Less people.” She pets the cat steadily. 

“Hm,” he replies, noncommittal, watching her for a while. She looks up. 

“What? There’s a question there, I can see it.” Sometimes she lets the Russian accent seep into her voice around him; most of the time, it’s straight up middle America. 

“How do you do it?” he blurts. 

She cranes her head, raises an eyebrow. “I’m going to need more than that to go on.” 

He waves a hand. “That cat. Someone could take it, or hurt it, or,” he makes an annoyed noise. “I don’t know what I’m asking. I don’t think it makes sense, now that I say it out loud.”

“How do I let myself get attached?” she answers, and thank god for her. 

“Yes,” Bucky replies. 

She hums. “I like pears. Red nail polish. Call of Duty. Lace. Pizza.” She tickles the cat between its ears. “I wasn’t supposed to like things that weren’t the motherland, or the mission.” She crosses her ankles. “People get their hearts broken. It’s human to get attached. It’s-“ she laughs. “I’m probably not the best person for this conversation, James.” 

He shakes his head. “You’re the only person.” 

“Oh, fine.” She points at him. “Don’t tell anyone I said this, got it?” He nods, pulls a zipper over his mouth. She huffs. “You’re… allowed to have needs. For affection. To be…affectionate.”

He snorts, and suddenly a rubber band is thwacking him in the head. 

“Shut up,” she groans. “I’m trying, here.” Her hands are already back on the cat, like they never left. He trained her well. “What I’m trying to say is, it’s human. You can try to remain the weapon, but,” she shrugs, “it’s a miserable way to live. And it’s what they wanted, from both of us. To not need, not care, not get upset when we butcher people.” She sighs, shoos the cat, stands up. “This conversation needs more vodka.” 

Bucky sits up. “I like music,” he says. 

*

He’s been more Bucky Barnes than the Winter Soldier lately. He’s taken Bucky out, walked around in his gait, let his face fall into his expressions. Natasha was right; it’s easy to be Bucky Barnes. Much easier than he would have thought. Bucky’s been waiting a long time to breathe the free air, and now that he has, he’s becoming himself at a rate that sometimes scares him. 

Tonight, when he opens the door, he doesn’t feel like Bucky Barnes. This is not something that Bucky Barnes can handle. That is why the soldier was born, after all, as much as he might hate what the soldier was made to do. 

When he becomes the soldier, he doesn’t feel like a bad person. He feels just as hurt as Bucky Barnes. More confused, maybe. But there is one key difference between the soldier and Barnes- the soldier knows how to function, despite fear, despite pain. The soldier knows how to survive. The soldier protects him. 

The soldier has his hoodie up (Barnes loves the soft cotton, and so does he). It helps block the noise of the city, shields him from hundreds of eyes he feels are looking at him. He’s acutely aware of his hair, his stubble, the fingernails of his right hand even in the leather glove. 

He walks. Miles and miles, down through the city, and the night grows deeper, the street lights fewer. The bouncing fluorescent light seems unreal, and he gets caught up in it, the play of light on brick, so much that he almost doesn’t notice- and if it hadn’t been for his enhanced hearing, he probably wouldn’t have, the little sob, the gasp for air-

He’s sprinting down the alley now, moves through the shadows like the soldier. Hunting. There’s a man, pale bald head shining in a thin beam of light, and the woman has her fingers wrapped around the hand on her throat, her nails are bloody, like she struggled, and he must have dragged her down here. He has her pressed against the wall, grinding, tugging at her skirt-

And the Winter Soldier and Bucky Barnes move together in one fluid movement that pulls the man off the woman while she reels back, gasping for air, and then the man is on the ground, and the sum of him wants to let the soldier kill him, but he wants to hurt him first, so he kicks him, kicks him again. 

“Stop,” the woman says, hoarse, “please.” He stops immediately, and she moves between them. “Don’t go to jail for that bastard,” she spits. The man leans up, groaning, scrabbles like he’s going to run away. The woman’s mouth becomes a thin line, and she whips something out of her purse, sprays it in the man’s eyes. He shrieks. The soldier smiles. 

“We- we have to,” the woman is shaking, “oh, god. Um, call the police.” She pulls a phone out of her purse, dials, and the soldier starts calculating how long he might have. She’s on the line, after, waiting. 

“What’s your name?” she asks, and he’s not sure how to answer.

“Asset,” the soldier says. “I will watch you until help comes.” And then he’s moving up the fire escape, disappearing into the darkness. 

*

He decides he likes the roofs in New York. He likes them a lot. He makes a happy noise under his breath when he settles into a particularly good vantage point. 

When dawn peaks over the city, he returns to the tower. 

He gets a razor, and a pair of scissors. He wouldn’t mind going out during the day, sometime. 

*

The hair isn’t all that hard to cut. He only takes off a couple scraggly inches; he likes it long, likes the feeling of comfort the curtain of hair brings, like a shield. 

Shaving makes him feel clean, better than he’s felt in a long time. In the mirror, he’s starting to look less like an attack dog, more like a person. Far younger than he feels. He spends a long time tracing the line of his jaw, trying to incorporate this into who he is now. 

When he strips and turns on the shower, he doesn’t expect it. He’d felt great, out in the city at night. Alive. In control. 

But the water runs down his back, and it feels like being hosed off, and that’s all it takes to bring back the woman’s sob, to wonder how far the man had gone, and he knows he was still clothed, but now it doesn't matter because he’s thinking of what would have happened if he hadn’t gotten there when he did. He has plenty of memories to pull from; he doesn't have to imagine.

“Stop,” he pleads, “stop, stop, shut _up_ ,” and the metal fist hits a wall and breaks a tile, but he can't halt the flow of memory. It hurts, in his body, he can feel it, and it isn’t just the physical pain. It’s-it’s wrong, even the Asset knew that. But the Asset hadn’t fought. 

When he comes back to himself through the litany of “stop, stop, stop,” trying to block the thoughts, he’s leaning against the wall of the shower, looking through a crack in the curtain, sees the razor. 

He steps out, cracks open the casing, and he knows how to make it stop. Doesn’t understand why, except each thin line he makes he’s counting now, knows he won’t run out of memory before he has to stop but it doesn’t matter. The repetition, the sharp grounding sting of pain, here and now, makes it stop hurting. 

He relaxes, and can feel the long sigh of relief as it passes through his body. 

The breakfast alarm beeps. He shuts it off.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> When we are loved we are afraid  
> love will vanish  
> When we are alone we are afraid  
> love will never return  
> And when we speak we are afraid  
> our words will not be heard  
> nor welcomed  
> But when we are silent  
> we are still afraid  
> So it is better to speak  
> remembering  
> we were never meant to survive.  
> -Audrey Lorde, A Litany for Survival


	7. Chapter 7

Bucky heads down to the Avenger's private gym early. He wants get the lay of the place before he meets the physical therapist; people behind his back make him twitchy. 

Of course, Steve is already there, beating the shit out a punching bag. He’s focused, goddamn beautiful to watch, doesn’t even notice Bucky approach. The bag goes flying, and Steve just stands back and surveys it for a moment. Bucky's seen that expression on puppies when they know they’ve done something wrong. Bucky coughs, and Steve looks up, bright blue eyes shifting into a guileless expression. 

“Oh hey, Buck,” Steve says casually. “I was just-“

“You were just,” Bucky mimics, and squats down to poke the bag. Sand spills out all over the floor. “I think it’s dead. At ease, soldier.” 

Steve sighs. “Tony’s not gonna let me hear the end of that. Keeps givin’ ‘em to me, though.” 

“Who deserved all’a that, huh?” Bucky asks, gesturing to the bag. Steve’s expression darkens, vicious. Sure, the kid looks like a damn puppy when he talks about doing the right thing, but when it comes down to it his righteous anger kills. With brutal efficiency. 

“Pierce,” Steve growls. “I worked under him for- god, I don’t want to think of what I might’ve done for him.” 

Bucky frowns, and the words are out of his mouth before he can think. “Pierce wasn’t that bad.”

Steve stares at him, brow furrowed- _what the hell?_ “Pierce wasn’t that bad?”

The doors open, and Bucky has never been so glad to see Sam Wilson. He waves enthusiastically, and Sam blinks, waves back. He realizes belatedly that he’s never done more than answer the guy in one-word grunts. 

“I brought bagels,” Sam announces, “because I need recovery carbs after the run this guy,” he points to Steve, “put me through at _four in the morning_.”

“Four-thirty. You got blueberry?” Steve asks, going for unapologetic but with a smile playing on his lips. 

“Three,” Sam says with a long suffering expression. “I figure it’ll whet your appetite.” 

Steve makes a grabbing motion with his hand, and Sam tosses the bag. “You’re welcome,” Sam says, pointed.

Steve gives him a nod, eats one bagel with a little moan before he looks over at Bucky. “Oh, hey,” he says, “you’re allowed to start simple carbs today.” He offers one of the bagels. 

“Nah,” Bucky says, “wouldn’t want to break up whatever’s going on between you and those bagels. Sounds like true love.”

“They are pretty effective at cheering him up,” Sam cuts in, taps his nose. “Word to the wise.” 

Bucky frowns. “Yeah, used to just head right back out and get a cola when he was being pissy, sit it down next to him and wait ‘till he drank it to talk. You upset about something, Stevie?” 

Steve groans. “Don’t call me th-“

“Nah, he’s just like that sometimes,” Sam cuts in with a wave. “Should have seen him when I first met him. I asked him what makes him happy, and you know what he said?” 

“Really sharp drawing pencils,” Bucky offers. “Root beer floats.” 

“Nope,” Sam replies, dry. “He said, ‘I don’t know.’”

Bucky’s frown deepens, and now he’s inspecting Steve. “I thought you were doing good. You seem like you got a lot of friends.” 

Steve gives him an awkward smile, shrugs. “Things are pretty good, yeah.” 

Bucky shares a look with Sam. “Hm,” Bucky replies. 

*

Steve comes to the first physical therapist appointment, because he apparently has nothing better to do. Bucky thinks that might be true. The more he thinks about it, whenever Steve isn’t busy smashing heads he seems to idle, hide away. He sure as hell doesn’t look happy, but Bucky had thought that was his doing. Now, he’s not so sure. 

He’s still lost in thought when the physical therapist pulls up scans of his arm. The guy is pointing out where bone meets metal, the rotation of the socket, and now he’s looking directly at Bucky, so maybe it’s time to start paying attention. 

“The biggest issue is the weight of the arm,” he says. “Even with the portions of your spine that seem to have been… reinforced to support the strain, the loss of fat and muscle tissue, well. I don’t want to worry you.”

Bucky barks a laugh. “I think I can handle it.” 

“The socket is beginning to grind. You could break bones. If this is left unchecked, you could eventually snap a vertebra from the strain that’s being diverted to your spine.” The physical therapist shakes his head. “Regaining muscle and fat should be enough to keep the metal from causing any serious damage; I don’t want to sound too bleak. But pain management will be another issue entirely.” 

“You mean they didn’t consider the long term effects on my health and comfort when they carved the arm into me?” Bucky returns, dry as the desert. The poor guy looks down- he’s been briefed on the situation, passed every security clearance Stark could make him jump through, but they hadn’t mentioned the elephant in the room till now. 

“Sirs,” JARVIS intones, and they all jump a bit at the sudden intrusion, “I regret to inform you that Sargent Barnes has been disposing of large portions of his meals for several days now. I apologize for the invasion of privacy, Sargent Barnes, but I was told to intervene if you became a danger to yourself or others, and I’ve determined that this qualifies for the former.” 

Bucky goes white. Then he stands and leaves the room. 

*

By the time Steve catches up to him in his apartment, Bucky has deflated. Steve looks at him with his big sad eyes, not judging, just concerned. Bucky feels like a shitheel. 

“Can you tell me why, Buck?” Steve asks, his tone careful. 

Bucky shrugs from where he’s sitting on the couch. Steve sits next to them, and they’re quiet for a few minutes. 

“Are you trying to starve yourself?”

Bucky makes a frustrated noise. “It’s not like that. It’s just… it makes me feel better. Like I’m paying my debts.”

“Like you don’t deserve it,” Steve says, bitter. 

“I don’t.” 

Steve buries his face in his hands. “I wish I could kill them all,” he mumbles, “every person who ever made you believe that. But I can't undo it, can I?” He looks up. “We’ve been trying to find you a therapist. A good one. Who you can trust to be completely confidential. We should have a list by tomorrow.” 

“I- I dunno,” Bucky balks. Steve is looking away again. 

“Please,” Steve says in a small voice. “Please eat. You deserve it.” He takes a shuddering breath. “And give the therapist a try. Natasha says they can help.” 

“Natasha says?” Bucky asks. “What about you?”

Steve shakes his head, gives him a tense smile. “I’m fine, Buck. Didn’t much see the point, for me.”

“Steve,” Bucky says, reproachful. But Steve is hunched in on himself, now, and Bucky’s losing him. 

Bucky opens his arms, back against the arm rest. “Come here you big idiot,” he says, and Steve shuffles forward until Bucky can circle his arms around him and pull him down. Steve’s head ends up on Bucky’s shoulder, the line of his neck tense, and Bucky runs a palm down his spine until he starts to relax. 

“Shh,” Bucky soothes, and when Steve breathes him in, he breaks. There’s a wet patch growing on Bucky’s chest now, where Steve has settled his head, ear over Bucky’s heart with his eyes closed. He’s quiet except for the occasional hitch of breath where he can’t control a sob. He cuddles in closer, presses his ear down more firmly, and that about kills Bucky. 

“Stevie. When’d you let yourself get so lonely, huh?” Bucky pulls the voice out of a corner of his memory, husky and gentle. Steve’s breath hitches again, his face hidden, and Bucky pets the soft, fine strands of hair at the base of his neck. 

“It’s been real hard without you, Buck,” Steve admits, then stiffens. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to,” he starts trying to pull away. 

“Shh,” Bucky says, “how ‘bout we make a deal? I’ll see the shrink if you go find yourself one too. That sound fair?” 

Steve nods, settles back in. “That’s it,” Bucky soothes. He feels a wash of protectiveness, and that’s right, familiar. “I’m right here.” 

*

_“Steeve. Steve.” Bucky’s leaning too much of his weight on top of him, but he needs to get closer. He needs to- he puts his head on Steve’s shoulder, turns to smile up at him. “Steve,” he says, fond._

_Steve gives him a slow, uncoordinated clap. He’s only had a couple drinks, maybe three, but, well. He’s always been a lightweight. “Good job, Buck!” Steve says in a voice he would use for a four-year-old. He points to himself. “Steve. Got anything else?”_

_Bucky nuzzles into the side of his neck, breathes him in, and his hands start to roam. “You smell nice,” he informs him. “But also like turpentine.”_

_Steve groans, bats one hand away only for it to return somewhere else. “How’d you get so many hands, ‘s like an octopus.” Bucky leans forward more, grinding on Steve’s thigh. Steve hits his shoulders._

_“You’re crushing me,” Steve informs him, “you’re huge.”_

_Bucky leers at him, and Steve groans. “Shut up.”_

_Bucky rolls and takes Steve with him, till he’s sitting with Steve in his lap. This is good, he reflects as he pulls Steve forward, wrapping his arms around him, settling his bony knees on either side of his hips. This is much better. He rolls his hips forward, bringing his dick in contact with Steve’s ass. Steve chokes._

_“Mm,” Bucky hums happily, nuzzling again as Steve bats at him half-heartedly. He kisses his neck because he wants to. It feels nice._

_Steve grinds against his stomach with a frustrated noise. “’M not a dame, Buck. You don’t have to warm me up.”_

_“’S not a race,” Bucky pouts, stroking the sharp lines of his hips. “’Sides, I could do it. Warm you up. I know how.”_

_“Yes,” Steve says patiently, “I know you know how. So does every girl in Brooklyn, you needy bastard. I just got the wrong parts, in case you forgot.” He gives him a meaningful thrust._

_Bucky frowns. “Don’t get around that much.” He slides a hand under Steve’s trousers, cups his ass, which fits nicely in his hands. He hums._

_“Not talking about your dick, Buck. Talkin’ about your reputation.”_

_“Mhm,” Bucky replies. “I’m not lyin’, though. Saw Johnny do it when I was coming home from work the other day. Warm a fella up. Been thinking about it ever since.” Bucky slides a hand inside Steve’s underwear, runs a finger down over his crack. Steve’s entire body shivers._

_“Yeah,” Bucky says. “You get your fingers real slick first, open someone up. I’ve been thinking about what you’d look like, if I got you down on your belly, spread your little legs wide for me.”_

_Bucky can feel Steve’s nose wrinkle against his shirt. He unzips Steve’s fly with his other hand, keeps the teasing draw of fingers over his ass._

_“Don’t be sore,” he says with a kiss over the spot under his ear. “I like that you’re little. My dick would look so big, pushing between your legs. But I wouldn’t hurt you.” He cups Steve’s cock through his underwear, then pushes his trousers down, pulls it out. He mouths at the shell of Steve’s ear._

_“I’d be so good to you,” he says, grinding steadily, using Steve’s precome to ease the slide of his hand. He presses a finger over Steve’s hole. “I’d give it to you so good, you’d cry for it.”_

_And then Steve’s coming with Bucky working him through it, till he’s still and panting on his chest. He shoves his own trousers down and pulls out his cock, grinds between Steve’s legs until he’s coming, holds him there while he breathes in his soft hair._

_Steve makes a move to shuffle away from the cuddling, but Bucky just lays back and pulls Steve on top of him. “Shh,” he says, patting awkwardly at his head._

_When Bucky wakes up, head pounding, Steve is settled on his chest, breathing even and peaceful. The way the early morning light filters through his hair looks like he’s got a halo on, and Bucky knows Steve’s better than this. Handjobs in the middle of the night were one thing, but this is wrong. He should’ve known better. Steve groans, but he opens his eyes._

_“I’m sorry,” Bucky says stiffly. “I made a mistake. Won’t do it again.” And then he’s off to take a shower, Steve’s eyes following him the whole way._


	8. Chapter 8

The headphones should make him anxious. He blares them loud enough to block out his thoughts, and that’s pretty damn loud. They cup his ears in a tight suction, are noise canceling, and would allow anyone to sneak up on him, were his sightlines not perfect (they are). 

The soldier sets traps at his air vent openings, secures them with micro thin mesh so even the smallest bots can’t pass though. He inspects the tall glass windows, and is grudgingly impressed by how secure they are, down to the final detail. Not that he’ll tell Stark that. 

Upon further inspection of his security, the soldier comes to the conclusion that Stark is only slightly less paranoid than he is. It’s a thought that lets him drift off for an hour or so at a time. Is it paranoia if they’re actually out to get you? 

After several days of wearing the headphones for a few seconds here and there he learns that JARVIS, through some technological sorcery, can actually hijack them to alert him when people are requesting permission to enter his apartment. 

It’s convenient. It makes him feel… if not safe, then relatively secure. Enough to have been listening to the music Nat downloaded for several hours, idly catching up on the world around him via tablet. 

“Sergeant Barnes,” JARVIS cuts in suddenly, and Bucky jolts up, swearing a blue streak. His heart is pounding so fast he’s gasping for air. 

Then again, maybe he should never let his guard down, ever again. 

“I apologize. Captain Rogers wishes to inform you that the Avengers have been called out on a mission. I will keep you apprised as the situation progresses.”

Bucky is up and crossing the room before he can think, headphones discarded on the floor. “JARVIS,” he says in the elevator, “take me somewhere I can see what’s going on.” 

“I… can request permission, sir,” JARVIS responds, and the elevator moves. 

*

“What are you doing here?” a brunette woman barks, pointing at Bucky. She looks at the ceiling. “What is he doing here? This is classified.” 

“I apologize, Director Hill,” JARVIS intones, “but your superior intervened and instructed I allow Sargent Barnes to enter.” 

“Superior?” Maria barks. “I’m the-“ she stops. “You know what, tell my _superior_ that I don’t appreciate it when dead men meddle with my decisions.” 

There’s a sharp crackle of voices over the speakers, and Director Hill turns her attention back to the screens that cover the far wall. 

“I don’t have time for this,” she snaps. “You,” she points to Bucky, “sit over there and don’t interrupt me.” 

The asset is shouting in the back of Bucky’s mind for him to sit down, shut up, and wait for further orders. Bucky grabs a headset. 

“JARVIS,” he says, watching the screens, “what’ve we got?”

“You’re currently viewing a live feed from Mr. Stark’s Iron Man suit.” Trees flicker past, nondescript. 

“Where are they?” Bucky asks. 

“Pennsylvania,” JARVIS answers. “Tioga County. Mr. Stark’s insect drone followed a number of bots that attacked Boston three weeks ago back to this location. It appears to be an underground base-“

A building comes into view on the screen, and something shakes loose in the Asset’s memory. A sudden column of fire, a flare from a gas well. 

_“It’s rigged to blow? Jesus.” The Asset sits, stony and silent, black rimmed eyes over the muzzle following his handler, ready for orders._

_“Surrender your weapon.” the handler holds a palm out, and he gives him his gun, then another, as if the Asset can’t understand what firing a gun in a gas room might do-_

Steve is on the screen, throwing open a door, and one of the bots flies out, wickedly sharp claws extending. Stark’s hand is raised in front of the screen for a repulsor blast-

“NO,” Bucky shouts as he leaps out of his chair, “don’t fire!” 

The repulsors power down. “What?” 

Hill turns on him with a growl, and the Asset’s knees are giving out, plunking him back down on the chair. 

“Natural gas,” Bucky manages, “fire will trigger an explosion. Failsafe, to keep the tech from falling into enemy hands.” 

“Everybody out,” Hill barks. “Double time. Barnes says the base is rigged to blow. Though I would like to know how the hell he got that information.”

After a brief startled pause, Steve is running back to the quinjet, a blur against the ground. Stark is turning away. 

The bot hunkers back down into the entrance, and Bucky sees it coming a split second before it happens. Steve isn’t far enough away. There’s enough gas in there to tear apart the earth several stories deep. 

“STARK,” he shouts, “grab Rogers, get in the air!”

The bot sparks. “Everyone in the quinjet,” Hill orders, “get in the sky, now!”

Stark grabs Steve, and they’re a couple feet off the ground when the bot blows. Stark manages to clear the worst of the blast, but the force of the explosion sends them rocketing, and Steve’s head crashes against the metal armor. Steve goes limp in Stark’s grasp. 

Bucky freezes, helpless. 

“Barton,” Hill is saying, “once you’re clear, open the quinjet bay for Stark. Cap sustained head trauma. Get your asses back for medical care, pronto.”

She turns to Bucky. “Care to fill me in?” 

“The Asset was there. I don’t remember why.” Her gaze is piercing, and it’s uncomfortable as hell. 

“Stark’s coming in now,” Romanoff informs her. “Cap’s coming around, vitals stable. Pupil reactivity normal.” 

“Good,” Hill says. She turns to Bucky, keeps her voice loud enough for the Avengers to hear. “Can someone tell me why this guy hasn’t been debriefed?” 

“Has a name,” Steve slurs, and Bucky can feel himself start to breathe again at the sound of his voice. 

“My apologies. Can someone tell me why I wasn’t told that the Winter Soldier a.k.a. Sergeant Barnes has apparently taken up residence in the tower? Debriefed, by the way, was my nicer way of saying interrogated and deprogrammed.”

“Cap’s orders,” Barton says. Bucky hears a ringing tone in his ears as his heart rate picks up, and he wants to get out of there, except he needs to stay where he can hear Steve’s voice, and he hasn’t been dismissed- 

“Figured it would be bad form to lock up the world’s longest serving POW,” Stark says dryly, “plus Cap and Widow’s methods seemed to keep him mostly sane, which is probably a minor miracle.” 

“Noted,” Hill replies. “We’re going to have to have a talk,” she informs Bucky. The soldier pulls his attention away from the screen for a moment, nods back.

*

“’S fine,” Steve slurs to Natasha as he disembarks, stumbling against her. “Just gotta sleep it off.”

“Not on my watch,” she scolds.

Steve huffs. “The serum’ll- oof.” Bucky runs forward and grabs Steve before he can think, holds him tight for a moment, buries his face in the side of his neck. He takes a deep breath. 

“Mhagnf,” he says. 

“What was that?” Steve asks. Bucky draws back, forehead to Steve’s, thumps his shoulders. 

“You could’ve died,” he says, strained, “Jesus, probably would’ve if I came in a few minutes later, or,” and then he’s gripping him tight again. 

“Well, I dunno about that,” Steve says, and Bucky cuts him off. 

“You’re concussed and _clearly_ don’t know what you’re saying,” Bucky mutters, enjoying Steve’s grumble. He pauses. “Why the hell were you opening that bunker, anyway? It could’ve been rigged, could’ve-“

“Th’serum,” Steve starts, and Bucky draws back, breathes deep.

“You’re, not,” he shouts, poking Steve hard in the chest to punctuate his statements, “fucking, invincible!” He spreads his arms. “You can’t just let yourself get hit over and over! You’re flesh and bone, Steve!”

“’S not a big deal, Buck,” Steve says, going for a reasonable tone, and that makes Bucky _livid_.

“Shut up!” he yells. “You’re worth more than putting your life on the line every time someone needs a goddamn sacrifice!”

Bucky realizes that the Avengers and Hill are all frozen around them on the roof, and it has suddenly gotten very quiet. 

“Ok, Buck,” Steve says, soft. “I’ll be more careful.” 

Bucky ducks his head away. “Damn right you will.” 

Stark wipes away an imaginary tear, then walks away. “You guys are going to make some beautiful babies,” he calls over his shoulder. “I expect an invite to the wedding.” 

“What?” Bucky says. Steve blushes bright red, even with his glazed eyes and dazed expression.

“Boys,” Natasha cuts in, “why don’t we get Steve checked out before he falls over?” 

Steve’s brows furrow, and he opens his mouth to argue. Bucky glares at him. He shuts it with a clack of teeth. 

*

“This is unnecessary,” Steve says an hour later, holding an ice pack to a lump on his head. Bucky is laying down with his hair fanning out over the armrest of the couch in Natasha’s apartment, his feet in Steve’s lap. 

Natasha pulls her chair closer and starts running her fingers through Bucky’s hair. She’s lightly tugging in intervals, and he raises a hand to inspect. 

“Tasha, are you braiding my hair?” 

“Yep,” she informs him. 

“Why?” 

“I want to,” she says, short. He stays very still. Her fingers tug back through the braids, getting rid of them. He doesn't dislike it. 

“Sit up,” she says, moving to straddle the back of the couch. “I’ll show you how to put it in a bun.”

“I don’t need,” he protests, and she taps her foot on his shoulder from where she’s assumed her throne. 

“It’s convenient,” she explains. “Keeps it out of your eyes when you need to. Plus, you’ll look very pretty.” She points to Steve. “If you try to fall asleep, I will know and I’ll dump a bucket of ice water over your head, capische?” Steve gives them both a long-suffering look, which Bucky has plenty of practice ignoring. 

Bucky stays very still and obedient while Natasha moves his head this way and that, humming as she tugs and twists. He can feel himself getting hazy, pliant. 

“Perfect,” she croons. “Steve, look, isn’t he pretty?” 

Bucky feels himself slip under, turning over to the Asset. It isn’t bad, but he didn’t expect it; and now Natasha’s taking out the elastic, running her fingers through his hair. He turns into the touch with a soft noise, hazy and content. 

“James?” she asks, and she sounds concerned. He would answer her, but he can’t seem to find the words. Her body shifts, and now she’s in front of him, his head in her hands. He tracks her passively, leans into her left hand. The hands retreat and he feels abruptly awful, like there's a pit opening inside him. He’s done something wrong, he doesn’t know what, but he knows he needs to apologize. 

He drops to the floor, back against the couch, head bowed. 

“Buck?” Steve asks, worried, but he can’t pull Bucky forward, because the Asset is hurting and he can’t stop, tries to make himself as small as possible, tries to do what Sir wants from him. 

“Sorry,” he says, “’m sorry, ‘m sorry Sir, sorry.” He buries his face in his knees and closes his eyes.

*

When he comes to, he’s wrapped in a blanket or three, and his head is in Steve’s lap. He stiffens, sits up. 

Steve and Natasha are both staring at him, and he knows, feels his stomach sink like a stone. 

“Buck,” Steve says carefully, “what was that?” 

“What do you think?” he snaps, tired. Steve looks away. 

“James,” Natasha winces, “I’m really sorry. I think I might have tripped some programming.” 

Bucky laughs, harsh. “That’s a nice way of putting it.” 

“You thought we were angry at you,” Steve hedges, “and it was hard to… calm you down.” 

“You mean I tried to blow you,” Bucky replies, tone too even, “and then I freaked out when you wouldn’t let me make up for whatever I’d done wrong.”

If a pin dropped in the room, all three of them would jump. 

“I’m gonna go,” Bucky announces, and gets up to leave. 

“Buck,” Steve calls, concerned. Bucky ignores him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i really appreciate comments that tell me how to improve, why this fic might be difficult to follow, errors, etc. (also everyone's nice comments give me life and motivation, thank you!) 
> 
> sorry for sidelining Sam, there were just too many moving parts in this story.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> warning: Hydra Trash Party (explicit non-con); I separated this part of the chapter so you can skip it if you so desire. though bits of trash are/have been sprinkled throughout

_“Well, the Asset is mostly obedient,” Rumlow is saying, tapping the Asset with his foot. The Asset growls, but he can’t do much else, now that he’s been sedated and wrestled into the mag cuffs. Rumlow smacks his bare metal shoulder with the stun baton, and the soldier grits his teeth when his stripped body hits the floor, twitching and jerking._

_“Mostly,” Pierce says dryly from his seat in the corner, watching the show._

_“Yeah,” Rumlow laughs. “Except, sometimes he just flips. Lashes out and hurts the techs; he’s killed a couple without even trying. Completely hysterical. He even tried to run away once or twice on my watch, which was pathetic to watch.” The soldier growls. Rumlow shoves a steel-toed boot down on the back on his neck._

_“Hey,” Rumlow barks, “shut up.” He turns back to Pierce. “Don’t get me wrong, the guy is damn near the perfect soldier. He’s deadly with a goddamn paperclip, hands tied behind his back.” There’s a note of awe in his voice, grudging respect. “He just needs to know his place.”_

_“Why not just wipe him, or put him in cryo?” Pierce asks. Rumlow snorts._

_“Just wipe him? Wiping him’s a bitch. He comes out all confused and helpless for at least a few hours while someone has to babysit him, make sure his vitals stay steady. And don’t even get me started on cryo. The guy’s helpless for a day or two, like a weak little baby that might decide to murder you. Nah.” The soldier squirms under Rumlow’s foot, and Rumlow kicks him in the ribs till the soldier curls in to protect himself._

_“Besides,” Rumlow continues, “you can go through all that and still not get the results you want. What he needs is good old-fashioned dominance training. Like a mean ass feral dog.”_

_“Does he ever lash out against you?” Pierce asks idly._

_“Well, yeah,” Rumlow laughs. “But not for long. If he tries to hurt me, or anyone on my team, we hurt him back ten times worse. And he can take it.” He shocks the soldier behind the knees, and a whine of pain slips past the Asset’s lips._

_Pierce nods. “He’s afraid of you.”_

_“He sure as hell should be,” Rumlow says, lifting the Asset’s head up by the hair. “But that’s not it. Fear helps, but there are more effective ways of putting him in his place.” Rumlow unzips, slaps the soldier’s ass when he lets out a low snarl._

_“Really?” Pierce says, amused._

_“Oh yeah,” Rumlow nods. “The Asset doesn’t like to be humiliated.” He jerks himself, tears open a packet with his teeth and lubes up. He places the stun baton over the back of the Asset’s neck, clicks it up a few notches in warning, and grabs his dick with his other hand to push in. The asset makes a high pitched noise of pain, but stays perfectly still._

_“Yeah,” Rumlow groans. “Fuck _yes_ , take it, good little bitch.” He grabs the Asset’s hip with his hand and thrusts, hard and deep, balls slapping against the soldier’s ass. After a few minutes, he stops, pulls out. _

_“Sir,” Rumlow says to Pierce, “how often do you think the Asset gets off?”_

_“Enlighten me,” Pierce says._

_“He doesn’t,” Rumlow smiles, “not on his own. Not sure he even knows how. One time, Westfahl jerked him off and the Asset thought it was the first orgasm he’d ever had. Hilarious.” He pushes back in, but changes the angle, careful, and the Asset makes a strangled noise._

_“Sensitive, huh?” Pierce remarks._

_Rumlow gives him a grin, all teeth, and pulls the Asset to the side, grips one leg under the knee and pulls it up. The Asset ducks his head away. He's getting hard. Rumlow gives him a shove to lay him flat on the concrete again, and walks over to squat down in front of him. He grabs the Asset’s hair, jerks his head up until his neck is bent at an unnatural angle. With the other hand, Rumlow grabs his dick and jerks it until he comes, covering the Asset’s face in his jizz, then wipes it all over with his softening dick. He takes a moment to catch his breath, then pulls the Asset up by his hair until he’s sitting, legs splayed, cock upright and hard between his legs._

_Rumlow kicks him in the balls, and the Asset hisses. “Did you like that, princess?” He taunts. “Slut.” He spits on the Asset’s face, and the Asset flushes. Rumlow grabs him under the chin, looks him in the eyes, sliding his boot back between the Asset's legs. The Asset jolts. “You want something, baby?” Rumlow croons. “Better go find another fag, then.” He pats the asset on the cheek, and leaves him sitting in the cuffs._

_“Dominance, huh?” Pierce says, observing the Asset’s posture, his downcast eyes. “Impressive. Though I’m not sure how much you know about it.” He snaps his fingers, points at the floor between his feet._

_“Asset,” he says, firm. The Asset looks up, waiting for orders. “Come here.”_

_The Asset attempts to stand, but Pierce shakes his head. “No. Crawl.”_

_The Asset’s brow furrows, but he does so, until he’s sitting on his haunches with his head between Pierce’s knees. He looks up, and Pierce takes an ornate square of cloth from his pocket, wipes the jizz away from his eyes, from his lips._

_“That’s it,” Pierce says, warm. “You took your punishment very well. Order through pain.” He slides a finger through the soldier’s hair, and the soldier’s mouth goes slack. “I’m so proud of you.”_

_The Asset looks at him, dazed, like there’s no one else in the entire world. “That’s beautiful,” Pierce praises. “Underneath all of that, you’re quite pretty, aren’t you?” The Asset is still rock hard between his legs, and he whines softly._

_“You like this?” Pierce says with a tilted smile. “You can earn this.” He runs the tip of one polished shoe lightly over the soldier’s cock, and he shudders. “You deserved to be punished today, didn’t you? But I know you’re a good soldier. If you follow orders, I don’t see any reason to punish you. In fact,” he leans in, scrapes his fingernails down the soldier’s flank, “you might even be able to earn a reward.”_

_The soldier stares at him, hungry. The chair scrapes the concrete as Pierce slides back, stands up, and leaves the room, the Asset’s eyes following him even after the door shuts._

_“What was that?” Rumlow frowns. "He doesn't need to be coddled."_

_“That,” Pierce smiles affably, “is how I’m going to have the Asset polish my boots, lick it off, and beg for more.”_


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> self-harm, second sentence.

Memories are shaking loose, now that he’s rattled that particular branch of thought; after about the fifth attempt to sleep feeling like he’s covered in crawling ants, Bucky gets up to shower. 

The five thin lines of blood soothe him. For about thirty minutes. 

He stands up, pulls at his hair, looks out the window down at the city. He needs to move, to do _something_ , but he doesn’t want to be outside and vulnerable right now. 

“JARVIS? There has to be a shooting range somewhere in this building, right?” 

“Of course, Sir. Sub basement two.” 

Bucky doesn’t bother doing more than rolling out of bed in his sweatpants and hoodie, and patting down his drying hair. At 3:15 am, he doubts he has anyone to impress. 

“Down the corridor and to the left,” JARVIS says helpfully once the elevator stops.

“Thanks buddy,” Bucky says to the ceiling. He doesn’t think it actually matters where he looks, but, well. It makes him feel less stupid. 

“You should be aware,” JARVIS’ voice follows him down the corridor, “that Mr. Stark designed a security device that prevents firearms from being taken outside of the range.”

Bucky can see that. The signs are in bold red print. “Gotcha. I don’t wanna test that, do I?” 

“It would be painful,” JARVIS allows. 

He opens the first of two sound-proof doors, and is jolted when he realizes someone else is already there. He considers leaving, but curiosity gets the better of him. Whoever is using the range at this hour must be pretty fucked up. 

There’s a man with an odd longbow at the far end of the range intently firing arrows at a printout of a guy in green robes. 

He’s seen weirder, but. Not by much. 

Bucky is a few feet away from the man when the guy stiffens, slowly turns his head, and jumps up with his longbow in hand. 

“FUCK!” he shouts, loud, and Bucky is so startled he grabs a throwing knife from his waistband. (He only has a couple. It’s not a big deal.)

“I was just-“ Bucky starts, and the archer squints, shakes his head, pointing to his ear. 

Bucky makes a show of putting the knife away, and the archer lowers the bow. 

_Deaf?_ Bucky signs, and the archer’s eyebrows shoot up. 

_Hard of hearing_ , he responds. _Hi. Sorry. My name's Clint,_ he spells. 

_I’m Bucky_ , he signs, moving his lips at the same time; the name still seems odd in his mouth. 

Clint smiles, shakes his head. _Wait._ Clint grabs a set of hearing aids from behind the partition and puts them in. “Yeah, I know who you are,” he laughs. 

Bucky nods. “Natasha has mentioned you.” 

“Good things, I hope,” Clint raises his eyebrows. He goes to the back wall of the room, opens a drawer, and takes out a handful of arrows. He smiles down at them fondly. 

Bucky comes to stand beside him, staring at the wall of drawers. 

“Dude,” Clint comments, watching him, “you move like a fucking ninja and you’re standing there like Darth Vader. Help me out here.”

“Composite longbow, huh?” Bucky comments, pointing at Clint's weapon. 

“Nothing better,” Clint says fondly. Bucky snorts, crosses his arms. 

Clint tsks, pouts with a smile playing at the corners of his mouth. “O ye of little faith. You ever shot one?”

Bucky shakes his head. Clint’s grin broadens, and he extends the longbow. 

“Come into my office,” he says, offering an arrow. Bucky goes behind the partition, holds the bow in his right hand, grabs the arrow with his left.

“You left handed?” Clint asks, not remarking on the metal arm at all. 

“Ambidextrous,” he reports, stringing the arrow. 

“Of course you are,” Clint mutters. 

Bucky lets the arrow fly. It misses the target, and he frowns. Clint chuckles. 

“Oh,” Bucky says after a moment, and extends his hand for another arrow. Clint crosses his arms and waits. 

He strings the arrow, shifts his stance, and lets it fly. It hits right between the green guy’s eyes.

Clint stares. “Showoff,” he says finally. “What else you got?” 

Bucky plucks the throwing knife out of his waistband, and throws it at the target without looking. He smiles, all teeth, when he hears it bury itself in the corkboard. 

“It’s on,” Clint mutters, setting down the longbow and heading over to the drawers. 

*

They’re playing with an assortment of deadly weapons for over an hour before Clint finally calls a draw. He orders pizza at 4:30 am because “it’s New York.” 

Bucky is technically able to eat pizza now (he’s been very good, courtesy of Steve’s nagging), but he chews it slowly, just in case. After a few slices, he’s stretched out on the couch, rubbing his stomach. “Why the green guy?” he says, turning to face Clint, who’s propped up in a plush chair. 

“Aw, hell,” Clint rubs his eyes. “You heard of the Battle of New York, with the aliens?” 

Bucky nods. He’s been doing his research. 

“It’s Loki. Nat printed out the first one and slapped it on the target, after about the fifth time I woke her up,” he gives the floor a half-smile. “He, uh, got in my head. Messed around. Made me do things.” Clint waves a hand. “Sometimes I just need to imagine him dying in horrible ways, you know? Better than feeling helpless.” 

Bucky is quiet for a few minutes after that. “Could we, could I maybe have one of those targets?” 

“What, with Loki?” Clint’s brow furrows. 

Bucky shakes his head. “Brock Rumlow.” 

Clint laughs. “That Axe-reeking douche? Hell yes. C’mon.” 

Bucky tilts his head. “Right now?”

“Yes, right now,” Clint gets up and offers him a hand. “Stark has these giant printers- I’ll show you.” 

*

“I don’t think Hill likes me,” Bucky comments as he buries knives into Brock Rumlow’s abdomen. _Thunk, thunk, thunk._

Clint shrugs. “Nah, listen. She’s just- she doesn’t trust you. Not yet. She’s protective of us. Nice,” Clint comments as one of the knives hits Rumlow in the junk. Bucky scrolls the board back to himself so he can remove the knives and do it again. 

“I can’t leave Steve alone on another mission,” he says, and he’s known that ever since he had to stand and watch him on the screens, completely helpless. 

Clint nods. “You know,” he shakes his head, “Hill doesn’t have an organization behind her, exactly, anymore. And I don’t think we’d stop you.” 

Bucky takes that for what it is. “What is this?” he says, pointing to the ceiling, which is universal for Stark Tower Audio. 

“Uptown Funk,” Clint supplies helpfully. 

“Mark Ronson featuring Bruno Mars,” JARVIS adds. 

“I like it,” Bucky says, nodding his head to the beat.

“Everyone likes it,” Clint says reflexively. Then he stares at him, wide eyed. 

“What,” Bucky’s brow furrows, staring back. 

“What do you know about music?” Clint asks, too high-pitched. 

“Natasha gave me a list, on my computer.” 

Clint shakes his head sadly. “I pity you. Her shit’s depressing.” He wraps an arm around Bucky’s shoulders. “Buddy. This might be the beginning of a beautiful friendship. What do you know about movies?”

“Uh,” Bucky says, allowing the contact. He likes the casual familiarity of it- he doesn’t know how to do it himself, yet, but he thinks he used to. He thinks he might like more of it. “Was Darth Vader a movie reference?” 

Clint lets out a delighted noise. “I am going to see the world through new eyes.” 

*

Bucky doesn’t sleep the _entire_ morning through with an effectively disemboweled Brock Rumlow taped to his bedroom wall, but it’s close.


	11. Chapter 11

Most nights, Bucky gravitates towards the rooftops. Missions that required a period of surveillance were the only time the Asset was left alone; he enjoys the peace and quiet, the anonymity of the city. The Asset likes the clothing he wears now; soft, flexible, the folds hiding the shapes of his throwing knives and gun (it’s better not to ask where he got it). 

Bucky spends most of his time alone. Steve and Natasha don't make it easy; they’re well meaning, but he slips away because needs somewhere he can let his expression go blank, lapse into instinct, not worry about the demands of the person he was or is becoming. 

After that brief moment of horror when Bucky woke up, the soldier decided he should handle the medical testing of his first few days in New York. The soldier knows how to be silent, cooperative. James is also easy; he knows Natasha, knows how to talk like a person and submit when he has to. Bucky is still working on being mostly sane; he sometimes has to check out when he can’t handle something. He mostly stays within the confines of his apartment. For the person holding the reins most of the time, the guy's a little fucked up. 

Bucky realizes that all of these individuals are him, and that they all undeniably carry parts of himself. Except, they never knew each other until the past few months, when they all agreed to go on a Hydra murder binge. They're mostly cooperative, which is convenient. He doesn’t have to let anyone know how crazy he is; he’s got a handle on it. For the most part. 

He lets the Asset enjoy being left alone on the rooftop. Unfortunately, the Asset, traitor, uses the opportunity to make him feel like he got kicked in the gut; there’s a deep pit inside him, and he curls in on himself, not aware enough of his surroundings- 

_Isn’t he pretty?_ And that’s not Pierce’s voice, that’s Natasha-

Bucky lays back on the rooftop and groans. “You’ve gotta be fucking kidding me,” he says. The Asset responds by running his flesh fingertips over soft cotton insides of his sleeve, soothing. “I know, pal, you like it. Yeah, it’s very nice.” He looks around the rooftop. Still empty. 

“Ugh,” he says, and laughs, a bit too close to hysterical for comfort. 

*

“Captain Rogers and Agent Romanoff will be down in half an hour,” JARVIS gives him a heads up. 

Bucky looks around, picks up his dirty clothes and puts them in the hamper. Good enough. Well. He opens his bedroom door, sniffs the sheets, and strips those too. He’s getting better at this; Natasha reminds him to shower and brush his teeth, Steve to eat, and the therapist puts a bunch of alarms in his phone. He’s mostly functional. 

He pulls a pint of ice cream out of the freezer for breakfast. Clint has been helping him make his way through the literally hundreds of flavors that now exist. This one says “Birthday Cake.” He snaps the seal. 

Which is why, when Natasha slides in and Steve follows (for a big guy he’s surprisingly delicate, when he wants to be), Bucky has a spoon in his mouth, muttering “Don’t believe me just watch,” and is attempting to moonwalk over the kitchen tile. 

Steve looks at him like it’s Christmas morning. It’s not a bad look on him. Then again, nothing really is. The spoon hits the floor. 

“Clint?” Natasha surmises. Bucky nods. He licks the ice cream off his lips. Steve steps forward, arms crossed. 

“I see you got yourself all cleaned up for us,” Steve says, smiling. "You ready to go dancing?"

Bucky looks down at himself. Yeah, ok, it’s a little on the homely side. “Well, with a face like mine,” he drawls, “not much else I need to add.” 

Steve snorts, and his gaze darts away. He frowns, and Bucky follows his line of sight. To the open bedroom door. 

Steve moves closer to the bedroom, and Bucky feels a sharp flutter of panic. “Buck, why do you...is that Rumlow?” 

Natasha looks over, curious, and sees the taped up picture of Rumlow, lower abdomen eviscerated, horns drawn on his head in crayon courtesy of Clint. “I like to bathe in Axe,” says a crayon speech bubble above his head. 

“How do you know him?” Bucky asks, and maybe ice cream for breakfast wasn’t a great idea. 

Steve is staring at the knife marks, silent, and you can hear the gears turn. "I'm not sure I did," Steve says softly. 

“Steve worked with him,” Natasha replies slowly, her gears clicking along, “he. Oh my god.” 

Steve looks over at her, and he looks… guilty? 

“I thought,” Natasha says, staring at him in shock, “I thought it was a woman! I thought it wasn’t a good fit for you, and I was trying to, but… Rumlow?!” 

Steve shrugs. “Guess I’m a better liar than you thought I was,” he smiles crookedly. 

Bucky’s panic abruptly changes its target. “What did he do?” he growls, rolling the metal shoulder, and Steve takes a step back. 

“Nothing I couldn't've stopped,” Steve replies, raising his chin slightly in challenge. 

“Steve,” Bucky says, and his voice breaks. 

Natasha pulls herself out of her shock. She turns to Bucky. “He didn’t care what you let him do, did he?” Her tone is as cold as he's ever heard it.

Bucky looks away, doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t have to. Steve goes white. 

“I- I have to go,” Steve says, and then he’s gone. 

When the elevator doors slide shut, Bucky’s panicking, he can’t control it, can’t do anything but let it slide through him. He’s no longer in control at all. Damn it. The Asset takes over, finds a corner to put his back against, knees up to protect his torso, eyes watching the room. He hugs his knees, and studies Natasha when she comes forward. 

“Did he hurt him?” the Asset says, his voice small. Natasha sits down next to him. 

“Steve’s going to be ok,” she says simply. “James, I’m sorry, I didn’t know you and Steve were together. I thought it was just,” she waves her hand, “a codependent sort of bromance, where you fixed each other’s hair and ate each other’s food.” 

“I didn’t want to hurt him,” Bucky says through the Asset. 

“What do you mean?”

“Steve. I didn't want to hurt him. I knew it was wrong,” Bucky offers in the Asset's voice. 

Natasha thinks about that for a moment. “But you still wanted him, when you were younger. You wanted each other?” 

“It’s not his fault,” Bucky says, sharp. He runs a fingernail through the slats of metal by his wrist. 

“I don’t think it’s anyone’s fault,” Natasha says, “and something tells me it wasn’t wrong. James, look at me.” He looks up so fast his neck cracks, quick to obey the order. 

“How old are you?” Natasha asks. Bucky’s brow furrows. 

“I don’t know,” he says, because there’s not a right answer and he’s confused. “I don’t think I’m anything. I’m ok.” 

Natasha leans against the wall, looks at the ceiling. “James, you need to talk to your therapists,” she chides. 

“I don’t trust them,” he returns. “It’s not their fault. They try to help.” 

“Yeah,” Natasha sighs, like she figured that. “Ok, come on, get up on the couch.” She offers him a hand and he takes it with the metal one, gentle. 

“Why don’t we play Mario Kart?” Natasha offers. 

“Ok,” the Asset nods. When she’s crouched down to turn on the TV, back turned, he gets braver. “I don’t remember how to fix my hair,” he blurts. 

She stands. “It is kind of a mess,” she assesses. Then she goes to the bathroom, and returns with a comb. 

He stays very still, moves his head this way and that when she pushes it with her fingers. 

“James, did you love Steve?” she asks. 

“Bucky did.” 

“Ok. Do you still love Steve?” She works carefully through the ends before moving up, so the comb doesn’t catch on the tangles. Sir didn’t do that. 

“Yes,” the Asset sighs. “Bucky loves him a lot. So does everyone else.” 

The comb stops, then resumes. “James, I don’t think what you feel for Steve is wrong at all. I think you already know what wrong is.” 

The Asset nods. “Maybe. Natasha, can you put it up?” 

When the elastic snaps into place, the Asset feels settled. Bucky can come back, now. 

“You know,” Bucky says, pulling the Brooklyn drawl back into place, carefully natural and easy, “I’d rather play Call of Duty.” 

Natasha raises her hand for a fist bump. “I’ll tell Steve to get his ass back here.” 

*

_“I’m not afraid to get a little rough,” Rumlow smirks, giving Steve an up-down look so bold that Steve blushes. Rumlow steps into his space._

_“You up for it, big guy?” Rumlow smiles at the innuendo, and Steve can feel his heart in his throat. He shrugs._

_“You want something,” Steve drawls, setting the shield down against the lockers, “you’re gonna have to come get it.”_

_Rumlow’s grin turns wicked. He pulls out a black baton. “How ‘bout we make this a fair fight then, huh, tough guy? Unless you wanna roll over now. You look like you need it pretty bad.”_

_Steve grits his teeth. “I can do this all day.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> holy whiplash batman


	12. Chapter 12

The next time the Avengers are called out, it’s in New York. 

Bucky doesn’t bother trying to find Maria Hill. He goes straight to the shooting range, grabs a rifle and hefts it over his shoulder, pulling the strap tight. He adds a few knives, grenades, tucks smaller guns into his clothes as he goes, straps holsters around his thighs. Finally, he walks towards the exit and pauses a few feet in front of it, wincing in anticipated pain. He bounces on his toes, trying to psych himself up. Whatever Stark has on the door, he’s willing to gamble it won’t kill anyone, if that's true it'll probably have a hard time disabling a super soldier with less than lethal force. 

He hopes, anyway. He lurches forward. 

“Sergeant Barnes!” Jarvis calls, loud enough to startle him. He flinches back with a string of obscenities, trying them out, dusting them off to make them new and _his_. He bounces on his toes. He blows out a breath. 

“Stop!” Jarvis says, and Bucky growls at the ceiling. _One, two, three-_

“Sergeant Barnes, if you attempt to leave this room armed, you will be electrocuted,” JARVIS sounds distressed, “given your history-“

Given his fucking history indeed. “I’d be happy to hear any other options, buddy. ‘Cause I’m going out there.” He twists his hair up into a bun with the elastic Natasha slid onto his wrist. He’s ready. 

“Sir,” JARVIS hesitates, “Mr. Stark has not forbidden me from telling you how the door operates. Or,” JARVIS sounds guilty, “where the control mechanism is located.” 

Bucky smiles. “Oh?” 

“I will have to alert Mr. Stark as soon as security is breached,” JARVIS informs him. “Also, Sergeant, if you attempt to go into battle without body armor I will not allow you to leave the premises.” 

A part of Bucky that wants to bite the head off of anyone that tries to give him an order responds, _I’d like to see you try._

“Deal,” he says. 

*

There are a shit ton of people in New York. On the one hand, easier to disappear in the crowd. On another, he’s got a rifle slung over his back, is wearing more assorted deadly objects than he can count, and he hates the hundreds of terrified glances he gets. _Hide!_ the Asset shouts, but hell, that never really worked anyway. 

He runs. 

When he gets to the Avengers, he only takes a breath to be horrified that Steve is on the back of what appears to be a saber-toothed floating whale. There’s a metal beam in its teeth, like it’s a toothpick. He blinks, and notices the... snake coming to join the party. Is that thing really 60 feet long? Jesus Christ. How. Why. Whatever it is, he doesn’t like the way it’s rearing back. 

“JARVIS, what the hell?” He hops onto a fire escape, starts making his way up. He’s glad he brought the grenade launcher after all. Dear god, that snake is wrapped around the building like it’s a cozy branch. He loads the launcher. 

“Mr. Stark and Doctor Banner have determined,” and there’s Banner right now, green and huge and jumping into the whale’s mouth, “that a portal has been opened to the Miocene Period. Mr. Stark is attempting to close the portal, and to determine- I’m sorry, I must redirect you, I’ll-“ And then Bucky is patched through to the Avenger’s comms. 

Thor has joined the party. Apparently none of them notice the giant fucking anconda. Snake. Creature. 

“JARVIS?” Steve is saying, and Bucky can hear him tapping at his earpiece. 

He doesn’t have time for this. He gets the snake’s head in his sights, and fires off the first shot. It bounces off the snake’s scales when it explodes, and the snake turns toward him, hissing. Oh shit. He is so not prepared for this. _It is difficult to explain, sir. The situation is developing,_ had told him fuck all. 

He asks very nicely for the Winter Soldier to take the reins, because being a stone cold killer, as much as that frightens him for other reasons, makes it difficult to lose your shit when a giant anaconda is headed your way. 

The snake hisses, baring its teeth, and the soldier fires a grenade into its open mouth. Nice. 

“Oh snap, did anyone else see that?!" Falcon comes in over the comm. "I mean,” Falcon’s voice drops an octave, “friendly fire, going to go check it out.”

He fires again, and again, until the snake starts to writhe, taking the base of the building with it. The roof rumbles threateningly. Out of the frying pan. 

He turns at the sound of a mechanical _click click click_ , and Falcon swoops in, grabbing him firmly under the arms as the roof tilts beneath his feet. He screeches, and that’s all Bucky. He’s pretty sure. The boundaries are getting fuzzier. 

“It’s Barnes,” Falcon reports. 

“What?” shouts Steve, distressed. Bucky rolls his eyes as his feet touch the ground. 

“Didn’t think I’d let you have all the fun, did you?” he says into his earpiece. 

There’s a heavy clang of something hitting the shield. He can hear Nat chuckle. "Goddamnit," Steve curses. 

It's just in time for Tony reappear and chime in, "Language, Cap." 

Bucky looks around, spots Cap, trademark bullseye hoisted. “Above you,” he says simply, and Steve looks up as an arrow goes through the- that’s not a pterodactyl, but he doesn’t have a better frame of reference, to be honest. 

“Get out of here,” Steve orders, and Bucky shivers even as he feels his shoulders stiffen. 

“Give me a better order, or I’m gonna pick something to shoot,” Bucky returns. 

“We’re talking about this later,” Steve growls, and Bucky hears another clang. 

*

It takes some doing, but Bucky manages to pluck out a memory of sitting in the hall during recess listening to the other kids play outside that matches this situation almost exactly. Except for the dinosaur(?) blood, and the fact that he’s pressing his ear to the door. 

Tony and Steve have been going at it for an hour- he can recognize them by tone, but the words still elude him. Damn Stark’s soundproofing. Clint manages to put a word in edgewise, and then there’s a voice that’s unmistakably Natasha’s agreeing. Something shatters. Steve flings open the door, and Bucky only just moves himself out of the way. 

“You’ll report for training,” Steve says through his teeth. “You’re not officially on the team, and, hell, Buck, I’d rather you be able to drink a milkshake before we let you run into combat,” Bucky winces internally, remembering the spectacular variety of foods he’s thrown up in the past few weeks. Steve sighs. “The others disagree with me, and think that if you’re gonna come anyway, we might as well talk about best practices.” He gives Bucky’s shoulder a firm pat and walks away, shaking his head. 

Bucky smiles. Natasha sees, and cuffs him roughly before offering a hand to pull him up. 

He trails her to her apartment, takes a shower, and passes out on her couch for a decent couple of hours. He gets up, paces around the kitchen counter twenty times, then falls asleep on the floor behind the couch. 

*

Bucky wakes up to the sound of a hairdryer. He rolls to his feet, stretches with a deep breath, testing his muscles, breathing out at the familiar deep ache of the left arm socket. He licks his lips over his teeth, and, okay, that’s gross. 

He nudges the bathroom door open, grabs his toothbrush and toothpaste from Nat’s cup, and plunks down on the toilet, grunting in greeting. 

Last night, she’d been covered in blood, hair sticking up at all angles, makeup from earlier in the day racooning around her eyes. This morning, she looks fresh as a daisy. She opens a twist tube of eyeliner and skillfully applies it. 

“Enjoying the show, James?” Natasha asks dryly. He’d stopped brushing his teeth, toothbrush listing in the side of his mouth. He goes to the sink and nudges her out of the way, spitting. 

“I miss Steve,” Natasha sighs, “he has manners.” 

Bucky sits back down on the toilet, watching her. He takes her brush and runs it absently through his hair. The elastic pulls it up in a practiced motion. Natasha is rubbing acetone over her nails, and opening a drawer to grab a bottle of polish. It’s light pink, and she applies it rapidly, never missing a drop. 

“Do you have red?” Bucky asks, and Natasha tilts her head. She kicks the trash can towards him. 

There’s an empty bottle of red polish near the top. He's not surprised; it's her favorite. 

“Was going to get some yesterday,” she fills in casually. “You been outside during the day yet? Not counting the time you went out with full tac gear and a grenade launcher.” 

Bucky shakes his head. 

“My nails have to dry,” Natasha says. “Be ready in fifteen minutes.”

*

There are a lot of reds. And other colors. They have testers. People are staring at the jacked guy with a single biker’s glove and a hoodie over his long hair, but he’s not too worried about it. They’re not a threat, and there’s a rainbow on his right hand to consider. He squints. 

“I like this one,” he points to a bottle of bright crimson. 

“Hmm,” Natasha considers. “If I get blood on it, it’ll blend right in.” 

A woman examining a pearl white bottle steps away. 

“The Asset liked it,” Bucky offers softly while he turns the delicate bottle over in his hands, so only Natasha can hear. 

“What else does he like?” she answers smoothly. 

Bucky shrugs. She takes his hand, and leads him towards the hair ties. 

She buys the ones his eyes linger on. The colorful hair ties, he uses. The barrettes he lines up in his bottom drawer, next to the knives. 

She also gets him the nail polish and a 16-ounce bottle of acetone. Putting it on is harder than it looks. When he finishes, a terrifying thrill of happiness fills him. It feels like it should be a weakness, except it doesn’t feel that way at all, and he can’t bring himself to take it off. 

He looks himself over in the mirror, and sees the shadow of the soldier staring back at him. He pins the hair out of his eyes, shaves his face. Bucky used to like doing this, before he got fucked over- cleaning up, feeling put together. Attractive.

“I am James Buchanan Barnes,” he tries, but he’s not, and he’s not the soldier either, or James, or the Asset. James Buchanan Barnes fought for a long time, struggled and wept and grimly stayed alive over and over, but now he’s dead. He had to die for the soldier to be born. He knows that, as much as he knows that telling Steve that would break him. He also knows that he’s the same person he’s always been. It doesn’t have to make sense. It’s true. 

“Bucky,” he says. “Bucky Barnes.” He tries smiling. This person isn’t Hydra’s asset or anyone who came before him, weighed down with terror and shame and remorse. They experienced those things, carry those people with them, but they are something new. Someone who can live a different life. 

There are several piercing places open at night. He walks in, pays cash, and his ears are pierced with steel-grey studs within thirty minutes. One of the customers looks askance at his nail polish, but it only makes Bucky snort a poorly disguised laugh. He feels like he’s running so fast he’s flying, and the guy’s silent nudge to conform makes him smug. _No,_ he thinks, _I fucking will not._ He’s out. And he’s not going back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bucky/Steve is happening. it's complicated, but they're traumatized and repressed so it's going to take a lil bit of doing
> 
> also i wrote this ridiculousness because no matter how cracky i make something, the canon is always worse.


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I ended up deleting and completely rewriting ch. 13, so sorry for any confusion this causes. it just really annoyed me, so I reworked the plot. this chapter is entirely new content. the good news is that since I figured out what was bothering me, I should be updating more.

Steve is watching him eat every bite of this bagel. It’s making him self-conscious, and not just because he’s pissed off by the mothering. Which is his job by rights, not Steve's. Anyway, he’s more aware of Steve's gaze than he's ever been, and it's making him feel like he should be trying to eat the bagel seductively. Or at least be aware of the cream cheese on the corner of his mouth, the crumbs on his shirt. 

He stares back into Steve’s eyes, steady, until Steve flushes and looks away. Victory. 

“You look like you haven’t slept in a year,” Steve comments, and Bucky ignores the stupid wave of hurt that causes. 

“Well,” he drawls, “I did spend a whole lot of years as a hunk of ice, which was kinda similar, but I don’t think it counts as beauty sleep. I’ve seen the footage, and I looked like hell frozen over.” He laughs. "Get it?" 

Steve goes pale. “I didn’t-“

“Jesus,” Bucky replies, “forget I said that.” He shrugs. “Sleep is for the weak.” 

“Is that an internet thing?” Steve tilts his head. For a guy who’s been in the modern world for a good couple of years, he knows fuck all about modern culture. Half the time, Bucky thinks he’s putting it on for other people’s amusement, but he’s pretty sure he already knows more than Steve. 

_Blending in to the civilian population during a mission is an essential skill,_ the soldier helpfully informs him. _Yeah, yeah,_ Bucky thinks. 

“Is that an internet thing?” Bucky mocks, but he smiles to soften it. “You’re not as old as you think you are, pal.”

Steve snorts. “I heard Hill cornered you,” he changes the subject. 

Bucky nods. “I was walking down to the gym, and she just stood there in my way. Woulda given her my best glare, except something tells me she wouldn’t’ve been scared, just more pissed that I was a thorn in her side. Which is sayin' something, because I've seen my mug in the mirror nowadays, and it scares me plenty.” 

“Probably wouldn't'a fazed her,” Steve confirms with a nod. “How’d it go?” 

“Well,” Bucky finishes his bagel, “she doesn’t think I’m secretly working for Hydra, anymore. Wasn’t too hard to convince her of that. She grilled me a bit to make sure I wasn’t interested in terrorizing civilians. Told me if I fucked up, the Avengers might have to take the fall for it, even though no one really knows who I am yet.” He swallowed. That, he actually hadn’t considered before, and the team’s decision not to stop him meant a lot in light of that information. He tried not to think about it too much. 

“I even told her to read off every trigger word we’d been able to collect,” he continued. “Think she was impressed that I’d already figured out how to work my way through ‘em.” Which, she should be. That had involved several seizures and a very messy nosebleed, while still being on the run in unfamiliar territory. 

“Alright,” Steve says, but he doesn’t look happy.

Bucky presses his temples. That was a whole lot of words; he’s not sure he can keep up the veneer of normalcy much longer. “What,” he says, flat. 

“Why d’you want to do this?” Steve asks, putting his palms flat on the table, expression earnest. “You keep up a good act, and I don't know how you do it, but I know you're struggling more than you let on. Hell, I don't know how you're even sitting here talking to me. And I'm not forgetting any time soon that you were nearly _dead_. I don't want to just sit back while you run yourself into the ground again, thinking you got an obligation or something.” 

Bucky winces, wants to make him understand but doesn't have the script. “I, d-don’t,” he thumps a hand down on the table, trying to get his brain to cooperate. “I don’t like feeling helpless,” he grits out. “I was doing a pretty good job of taking out Hydra, wasn’t I?” He tries to form the next words in his head. “I’m not helpless. I can do this. I’m good at it.” He looks up at Steve in all of his 6’2” perfection, but what he’s looking for in him is the same thing he needed when they were kids. “I need to do something right,” he says, and it comes out pleading. “Can’t just sit here, going crazy.”

“Buck,” Steve says, resolve crumpling. “Hey, I’m sorry. I didn’t understand.” 

Bucky looks away. “You’re right to ask,” he stumbles, “I know it, that I’m not quite right anymore, but I wouldn’t go out with a gun if I thought I was dangerous. I’m a little scrambled, but I’m good at what I do. I want to make things right. You can trust me.” He doesn’t mean to, but the last bit comes out as a question. 

Steve reaches out a hand, hovers it over Bucky’s shoulder, then pulls it back. Bucky’s not sure if he’s glad for it, or if he wishes Steve would stop treating him like glass. “I know,” Steve answers, firm. “I know how strong you are. I know you’re capable. You don’t need to prove that to me.” Bucky nods and feels himself relax. He’s exhausted. He gets up without another word, and goes to sit on the couch. Steve’s used to it by now, and he doesn’t question the break in etiquette. Sometimes, Bucky just shuts down when there’s too much emotional shit going on for him to handle. 

He can hear Steve washing dishes while he sits and zones, and turns silently with a blink in Steve’s direction when he joins him. 

“Hey,” Steve greets, and Bucky blinks to clear the daze. Steve’s looking down at his hands, and gives him a funny smile. Bucky moves the metal hand, hiding it, even though he knows it’s ridiculous. 

“Did Natasha paint those?” Steve points, and Bucky looks down at the fingernails on his right hand, stomach dropping unpleasantly. 

His heart starts pounding, which is goddamn stupid, because what does he care, except Steve looks up and meet his eyes and god he really does care, he’s going to be crushed if Steve is disgusted with him, or worse if he _knows_ he’s not the same person he knew back when they were kids, and maybe he’ll turn him out when he figures it out-

“I did it,” he says, challenging, refusing to look away. 

“Ok,” Steve says simply. “That’s ok.” 

“Didn’t ask if it was,” Bucky says, palms sweating. 

“It’s your body, Buck,” Steve says, gentle. 

“Did Sam tell you to say that?” Bucky bites back, not meaning to, but not sure how else to push Steve away before he panics. 

“No,” Steve says, steady. “My therapist did. Sam agreed, though. I want to make sure I’m doing right by you.” 

“Don’t overthink it,” Bucky says, panic still threatening to choke him. “It’s not a big deal. It’s fucked up.” 

“It’s your body,” Steve repeats. “Whatever makes you happy is good for me.”

“Pierce,” Bucky says, then shakes his head. He hadn’t meant to go there. “I’m different,” he says, like it’s an apology. To anyone else but Steve, it wouldn’t be. 

Steve smiles, shakes his head, and Bucky stiffens. Steve sees it. “No, I’m sorry,” Steve hastily corrects, “it’s just, of course you are. Did you think I expected you to be the same as you were in ’44? D’you think I’m the same?”

“That’s different,” Bucky says, wooden. He’s past emoting. “Something in me got weird, broken. It’s not right. It’s something sick they put in me.” 

Steve studies him for a moment. “I dunno about that. Sam told me people use all kinds of words for different genders, now.” 

“I don’t think I’m a woman,” Bucky says stiffly, idly scratching away at the polish. 

“Ok,” Steve shrugs. “Hey,” he taps his fingers lightly on Bucky’s, stopping the scratching. He opens his mouth to say more, and Bucky firmly plants a finger on his lips. He can’t stand how _good_ Steve is; he could spend his entire life trying to live up to it, and he doesn’t want to hear anymore right now. 

He sees Steve’s flicker of surprise, then mischievous grin barely a second before his tongue darts out to lick Bucky’s finger. 

“Eugh,” Bucky says with feeling, wiping it on Steve’s cheek. Steve’s laughing, and Bucky feels a bit lightheaded with the come-down from the panic, and an accompanying swirl of emotions he doesn’t even want to begin trying to understand. Steve’s goddamn gorgeous like this, laughing like they’re kids again, stupid in love and trying to find excuses to touch each other. He pokes Steve in the ribs. 

Steve pokes back tentatively, and Bucky gives him a little growl and starts tickling him. Steve flails, screeching with laughter, and Bucky grabs his wrists like he has a hundred times before, leans down, and presses his lips to Steve’s. They’re chapped and perfect, soft and overwhelming, and he’s standing before he realizes it, leaving Steve dazed on the couch. 

“See you later,” he mutters, and walks out the door. 

*

Sometimes, being Bucky Barnes is really inconvenient. The guy is reckless with his feelings in a way that makes both the Asset and the soldier shudder. 

He’s lost track of how long he’s been hiding in his room when JARVIS announces Natasha and Steve are approaching. He descends further into his blankets on the couch, and pulls a corner of one over his head. A sliver of one eye peeks out to keep an eye on his surroundings. 

Nat comes with Steve in tow, and deposits him on the couch next to Bucky. 

“Oh, great,” she says from somewhere off to the left. He shrugs down the blanket to his shoulders, and she comes into view. “You’re both moping.”

“I’m not,” Steve protests, and Natasha puts a hand up. She gives them both a slow once-over. 

“Ok,” she starts, “James, you took off the polish I got you.” It’s a question. 

“It was chipping,” he says, and she raises her eyebrows. 

“James, I am not a patient person,” she reminds him. “Even you wouldn’t chip it off that bad in a day; you haven’t even left this floor.” 

“Thanks for the confirmation that you’re tracking me,” he says sullenly. 

“Of course I am,” Natasha replies, unrepentant. “You spent 70 years being brainwashed and tortured off and on. You’ve only been out a year, most of that on your own. If you were anyone else, you’d probably still be in a room with the bed bolted into the floor and a 24/7 guard, trying to prove you were stable enough to shave. Like when I was brought in. Don’t change the subject.” 

“Yeah, alright,” he concedes. He has noticed just how lenient they are with him, how they must have planned for this long before he came in. Everyone seems to know what’s up, down to the security guards at the back door and on the roof. He’s grateful for the leeway having access to an omnipresent AI affords him, he really is. “I did chip it.” 

“Steve,” Natasha turns, “I know I pretend to know everything, but I really can’t tell if you’re sad or angry. Give me something.” 

“I’m not angry,” Steve replies, sounding angry. 

Natasha sighs. “I am not playing 20 questions.” 

“I don’t know what that is,” Steve says. 

“It means,” Natasha stares him down, “you tell me what’s wrong, or so help me Rogers-“

“I kissed him,” Bucky admits, tired of the game. He goes to stand and she glares at him until he’s sitting again. 

“This is stupid,” she says. “Steve, you’ve been pining as long as I’ve known you, and now he’s _alive_ and mostly stable and kisses you, and you go watch soap operas in the common room?”

Bucky snorts, picturing it. 

“He ran off,” Steve admits, like Natasha’s wringing it from him. “Again.” 

She considers this information. “I’m only going to play relationship counselor until you guys learn to use your words. I’ve got a bet going with Clint and I hate losing, so,” she waves her hands, “fix this.” She stands up and goes to the bathroom, shutting the door behind her. 

“Soap operas?” Bucky smiles, and Steve stiffens. 

“You’re my best friend, Buck,” Steve starts, “no matter what.” 

“But,” Bucky supplies. 

Steve nods. “But, I can’t do this with you all over again. It isn’t fair.”

Bucky tamps down some of his rising anxiety, letting his expression go blank. “You aren’t interested, Rogers, you can just say so. I can take it. I’m a grown man and all.” 

Steve’s brow furrows. “I’m not the one who keeps running away. I just don’t wanna be played with.”

“Oh,” Bucky deflates, spotting the problem despite himself. “My memory’s, you know, not the best.” Still, he comes up with at least four instances of him running away after he touched Steve, without having to think too hard on it. “I’ve done that, haven’t I?” 

Steve blinks, as if this disconnect didn’t occur to him. 

“You know,” Bucky starts, “there were some dames…girls. Young women?” Steve nods. 

“I’ve been told that dames is so outdated it just sounds endearing,” Steve offers. 

“Right, well.” Bucky has to gather his words again. “There were some who were interested in what you had to offer, you know?”

Steve snorts.

Bucky points to him. “See, that’s what I’m talkin’ about. You were so convinced no one would give you the time of day, you just left so you didn’t hafta deal with it, right?”

Steve starts to look pigheaded, and there’s an expression that never changes. 

“I ran away before ‘cause I thought you deserved better, and I knew you didn’t have to be queer. I stopped going to confession because I knew it was wrong, but I had trouble making myself stop.” 

Steve’s expression goes soft. “Buck-“

Bucky holds up a hand. “Wait, I’m thinkin’. Gimme a minute.” He figures out some sentences before he says them. “I think I know better now. I know what’s wrong, and this ain’t it. But I don't have any fuckin’ clue what I’m doing, or what I want. So if you want me to back off, you just say so, and I’ll do it.” 

“Hey,” Steve says, and reaches over to squeeze his shoulder. It’s the one that joins with the metal, and Bucky gasps.

Steve jolts back. “Sorry,” he says quickly, but Bucky is already shaking his head. 

“Nah,” he says, “it’s not bad. Just kinda sore.” 

Steve wiggles his fingers in invitation, raises his eyebrows with the question. Bucky nods, turns to the side. Steve sweeps his hair to the side, though it’s short enough that it doesn’t really matter. Bucky still shivers when Steve’s fingers make contact with the back of his neck. 

“Here, here, and up through here,” Bucky traces his fingers from his shoulder up to the base of his skull, “feel,” and he reaches behind himself to grab one of Steve’s ridiculously large hands. “Metal reinforcements, and over here,” he drags Steve’s fingers, “wire leads up to my head. You can rub around the reinforcements, but not too hard. Be careful around the leads.” 

“Ok,” Steve says, and starts a rolling motion with his thumb that makes Bucky bite back a whimper. 

“This looks like it hurts,” Steve comments, and Bucky laughs. 

“Yeah, sure does,” he admits. “’S been worse.” 

Steve presses his thumbs up from Bucky’s shoulders to his neck in a smooth motion. “I didn’t want to give you too many things to worry about at once, but if you’re in pain… Tony’s offered to help. He has some ideas about fixing the weight issue, dealing with where the arm attaches.”

“No,” Bucky says quickly. 

“Buck,” Steve chides, and Bucky pulls forward. 

“I remember when they put it in,” Bucky says. “I watched it. I don’t want to think about it.” 

“Okay,” Steve lets that one go, and keeps running over the tight, irritated muscle. He drops a gentle kiss on the back of Bucky’s neck, an apology and promise not to bring it up again. Bucky shivers. “I’m sorry,” Steve adds, “about acting like I did to the kiss, and running away. You’re probably right, about me.” 

Bucky laughs. “’M always right about you. Didn’t know how to buy toothpaste, but I knew what Steve Rogers liked for breakfast. I gotta be the world’s leading expert on that.” 

Steve laughs, genuine. “I figure you probably are. That’d piss off some academics who’ve made me their life’s work, probably.” He starts moving his fingers down Bucky’s spine, concentrating on the left side, and Bucky can feel himself tilting his head to bare the side of his throat, instinctive. 

Steve notices, and leans in to nuzzle it. Bucky draws in a sharp breath. He’s good at that, but hey- he learned from the best. “That ok?” Steve asks. 

“Yeah,” Bucky allows. “Not much more’n that. There’s some things,” and this is hard, he really has to think about this one. “I don’t even remember, but there’s some stuff they trained into me, I don’t realize it ‘till my body starts doing it. Not, like, stuff with weapons, ‘cause that’s different, it doesn’t feel like this.” 

“Like what,” Steve prompts. 

“Mm,” Bucky tries to pull his mind forward, but he can feel himself slipping into the Asset, going too docile. “Warm, um, compliant, probably. But also,” he chases the feeling down, and it’s only his connection to Bucky, past Bucky, anyway, that allows him to identify it. “Scared,” he nods, “sort of scared, somewhere.” 

Steve takes his hands away. “Do you want me to stop?” 

“No,” Bucky says quickly, hearing the anxiety in his voice. Steve’s hands return. 

“Shh, it’s ok,” Steve says, and Bucky’s ashamed of whatever fucked-up thing his brain’s doing, but at least the anxiety peters out. 

“I’m sorry,” he says, pulling away. 

“You’re ok,” Steve soothes, dropping his hands. “I’m sorry I was upset, before. How about, from now on, you lead. I was never very good at this dance, anyway.” Bucky turns to see his lopsided smile. 

“It might be hard for me to ask,” he admits. 

“That’s ok,” Steve says. “You can tell me however you need to. You can write it down, for all I care. Point, or something.” 

Bucky nods. “What about you?”

“What about me?” 

“Will you tell me if you want something? Or you don’t?” His tone is firm; this is important. 

“Sure, Buck,” Steve says easily. 

“Promise me,” Bucky says. “You’ll tell me if you don’t want to do something, even if you think it’ll hurt my feelings.” That was one thing the therapist was good for. One of them, anyway. Bucky has a small team. She talked about healthy boundaries, and he was listening. 

Steve looks him in the eye to let him know he understands. “I will. Promise.” 

Bucky nods, satisfied. Natasha takes that moment to finally step out of the bathroom, blowing gently on her nails. 

“I like this one,” she says casually, “takes a long time to dry, though.” She holds up the bottle, wiggles it. 

“Tasha,” Bucky says, eyeing the bottle. “Can I ask you something?” 

She puts the bottle down and comes over, inspecting the other hand. “Yeah, go for it.” 

He looks down. “What if it’s something they did to me? The reason why I like this stuff.” 

“So what?” she says, and he looks up, because that’s not what he was expecting. He’s been thinking about this for a long time, trying to decide what’s him and what’s their programming, and he doesn’t think he’ll ever really know. 

“Do you like it?” she asks. 

“Well, yeah,” he says, acutely aware of Steve sitting right next to him, hearing him. 

“Does it hurt anyone?” 

“No,” he allows. 

“Well, there you go, then,” she shrugs. 

“That, that can’t be it,” he protests. “It matters.” 

“It can,” she concedes. “But let’s put it this way- you liked it before, and it’s not them. You decide it makes you happy, and you keep doing it.” 

“Right,” Bucky replies, familiar with this train of thought. “But-“

“You didn’t like it before, they made you do it, or they gave it to you as a reward, and you figured out you liked it. You decide it makes you happy, and you claim it as your own.” He frowns, and her lips tilt. “Or, you could wallow in self-hatred and wonder if it’s something they made you, and therefore something bad, when really it’s just a fucking bottle of nail polish and you’re spending hours making yourself sick over it. When you could be liking it _despite_ whatever they tried to do.” 

He thinks about this. “Point,” he says. “Thanks.”

“I get it,” she shrugs, and turns to leave.

“Wait,” Bucky calls, “why don’t you stay?”

Natasha looks surprised. “You figured it out, right? You don’t need me. Go make out like teenagers under the stars, or whatever you romantic types do.” 

“Stay,” Bucky says, looks at Steve in silent communication. 

“Yeah,” Steve says, serious. “Why don’t you stay with us, Natasha?”

She looks between them, realizing something for the first time. Her mouth makes a slight o, the biggest tell Bucky’s ever seen on her. 

“I have to go,” she announces, and she’s out the door with it swinging shut behind her. 

*

An hour later, she returns to Steve and Bucky lounging on the couch, watching Nicki Minaj on their flatscreen. 

“That’s art,” Bucky says, his attention completely occupied. 

“She is an outspoken feminist," Steve adds. 

“I heard the vent opening, Natasha,” Bucky drawls, “and while I’m glad you’re not afraid of me murdering you on reflex, don’t think you can sneak up behind me.” 

“I’m not that stupid,” she says in Russian, and Steve twitches, turning to face her. 

“I have conditions,” she announces from the countertop she landed on. “I am not committed, to anyone. I don’t plan to be, or want to be. I will remain completely autonomous, and I may decide to sleep in my own bed.” 

Steve blinks. “Ok,” Bucky says. 

“I sometimes disappear for weeks on end. If I think I need help, I will find a way to send a message. Otherwise, do not follow me.” 

Steve nods. Bucky inclines his head. 

“I prefer to be dominant, in bed. I know what I like, and I know what I like to do. If I want to fuck you, I’ll offer. If not, I’m not interested. And I won’t be interested all the time, for reasons that have nothing to do with you.” She pauses. “I can have sex, I enjoy sex, but romantic puppy love is for children. I don’t desire it, and I mean that. That being said,” she tilts her head. “I do have people I care about. You’re both important to me. It’s important to me that we can trust one another, as much as we can.” 

“I do trust you,” Steve says firmly, and Natasha looks away. Bucky knows what it’s like to have earned Steve’s good favor. It makes you feel like you’re good enough, no matter what you’ve done. 

“Is that acceptable, for both of you?” she says, challenging. 

“Yes,” Steve says simply. 

Bucky smiles. “Yeah, but I wouldn’t get your hopes up for any of that. Not sure I can even kiss right.” 

Natasha shakes her head. “I heard it’s like riding a bike. I wouldn’t know; I just learned that a couple years ago.” 

“I think I got my bike pushed into a ditch, or something,” Steve winces. 

“Oh, god,” Natasha hops down off the counter, and sits between them. “What are we watching?” She pulls Steve’s arm around her shoulders, and presses Bucky’s head into her lap. 

“Anaconda,” Steve supplies. “We’re making our way through Nicki.” 

Natasha runs her fingers through Bucky’s hair, feeling him relax by inches. She leans her head into Steve’s shoulder. “It’s late,” she says. She pokes Bucky’s ear, and he bats her away. “When do you sleep?” she asks. 

“You know I don’t,” Bucky says dryly. 

“He didn’t during the war, either,” Steve says, “unless I was keeping watch. I didn’t need as much sleep as everyone else, though, so it worked out fine.” 

“You mean after Zola,” Bucky mumbles. “I was a fucking mess. Or, at least I thought I was. I had no idea.” He thinks about it. “They didn’t bother much with sleep, for the past few years. They could just put me on ice when the missions were over. Easier. I was still functional enough when I was tired, and it didn’t matter.” 

“Hm,” Steve’s hand trails down over Bucky’s shoulder. “Why don’t I keep watch?”

“Yeah,” Bucky says, “maybe. Here on the couch, though. Not the bed.” 

Natasha bends down, kisses his hair. “Here on the couch,” she agrees. 

He sleeps for three whole hours, uninterrupted.


	14. Chapter 14

After the hellicarriers, after he hauls the Mission from the Potomac and leaves him coughing on the riverbank, there is only the soldier. It hasn’t been long enough since the wipe for even the Asset to emerge, much less James of the Red Room or Bucky Barnes of Brooklyn. He’s a collection of reflexes, body-memory and decades of conditioning. 

The void within the soldier where his past should be doesn’t last long after _the end of the line_ ; and perhaps it isn’t so much a void as a pressurized hull, a pocket of emptiness meant to protect the creation of the perfect soldier. Bucky isn’t like Natasha; he has two decades of family and friends, of becoming his own person, his own man. There’s a personality there, threading through James and the Asset and the soldier, a part of Bucky Barnes that exists sans his memories, when it has enough time to emerge. 

When Steve pulls on the thread of Bucky Barnes, and memories begin to tumble out, the hull collapses. He is not the soldier and he is not the Asset or James or Barnes. He is all of them at once; there wasn’t emptiness between Bucky Barnes and the present, there are years of memories and learned responses. There are experiences that cannot be denied that Barnes was not present for. 

He doesn’t even fit in well enough to sleep in the shelters. He argues with himself, gets caught in the past as if it were the present, makes too much noise and frightens the workers and the guests. He goes in for a toothbrush, sandwiches, coveted pairs of warm, dry socks. He sleeps on park benches ‘till he’s shaken awake by police officers. He’s too weak to fight back when he’s forced into a withdrawal program; and he is in withdrawal from whatever cocktail of drugs Hydra had him on for compliance, immobilization, focus. Once he’s there, though, and injected with a whole new round of drugs, they mostly ignore him. He metabolizes them rapidly, and slips away. 

Normalcy is hard work. His hands shake and his head hurts and he seizes every few days. He panics over a flash of light, the smell of bubblegum, dripping water. He understands currency, but he doesn’t realize he’s ordered his coffee in Russian until the barista repeats that she cannot understand him. There’s a cacophony of voices in his head attempting to direct his movements, all with different opinions. 

He’s aware he’s not sane. He just has no clue what to do about it. He’d rather die than go back to Hydra, and Bucky is too ashamed to allow Steve to see what he’s become. 

It’s raining sideways when he tries to sleep beneath an overhang, and as he shivers miserably and tries to stay calm enough to avoid seizing, he realizes he needs a mission. He needs a task to give himself the will to live. He’s been in far more pain before, and he persevered because nothing was more important than the completion of the mission; not hunger, not pain, not exhaustion. 

It’s Bucky who suggests the mission, and Bucky who leads them thereafter, conceding to the others as the mission deems fit. They work together. They are unstoppable, burning as they go. It’s the second time Hydra created a weapon too powerful to be leashed like a dog. 

*

Bucky has done his best to keep the Asset quiet. He’s as embarrassing as he is annoying; he makes his demands for comfort known like a child, painting Bucky’s surroundings paralyzingly bleak and hopeless until he caves in and wraps himself in blankets, makes coffee, hunkers down in the corner of the room with the best sightlines while he listens to whatever song he’s discovered on repeat. 

Just as he thinks he’s gaining control of the Asset and can behave as a rational adult 24/7, the Asset begins to demand more. He won’t accept the blankets he doesn’t deserve in the first place; he wants _Steve_ , he wants _Natasha_ , he refuses to sleep alone unless he can’t help but pass out in exhaustion. 

The goddamn arm doesn’t help. He knows it’s getting worse, not better; that’s why he won’t let them scan it again. They’ll say he needs surgery, and he doesn’t want to face it. The Asset whines that he’s in pain, but Bucky Barnes’ terror of saws and scalpels and metal grafted into bone is stronger. He’ll have to be in agony before he cries for help. 

Unfortunately, that doesn’t take long. 

*

He knew they’d come after him at some point. He just didn’t anticipate they’d regroup so soon. He should have known; cut off one head. 

He shouldn’t have favored any particular rooftop either, but, well. He’s gotta live. It’s how they find him; he’s good, but even he can’t keep an entire stealth Hydra contingent from tracking him. He’s nowhere close to the tower, either; he's somewhere in Bed-Stuy, so he just has do his best to keep a few steps ahead. They’re circling, trying to close in. He redoubles his efforts, following his instincts; he leaps from one rooftop to another to shake them. He’s got his phone in one hand, dialing JARVIS, but he can’t afford to stop. 

“Parkour,” he giggles hysterically, windmilling when he lands. The next jump is a little far, even for him, but he’s sure he can make it. He’s done worse. He gets a running start, goes to push off from the building, and hears a gunshot. He stumbles when he whips his head around to look in the direction of the shot. He gets some lift, but it’s not enough. He’ll come up short. 

It happens in seconds; on instinct, he grabs the ledge of the building with the metal arm, and something _gives_. He bites his lip to muffle his yell of pain, can’t maintain his grip, and falls. _Shit_. He’s pretty sure he won’t die from this height, but he’s also sure he’ll be incapacitated. The arm's already dislocated; it's a familiar feeling. He smacks a fire escape on his left shoulder, and he can feel the sickening _crack_ of his collarbone separating as he rolls onto it. He screams, and not just at the snapped collarbone, but the leads ripping through muscle, sending faulty signals back to his brain. Pain, white-hot and burning, tears through him, and he pants when it subsides. 

“JARVIS,” he says, hoping the call got through, “now’s the time to use that tracker you’ve got on me. Hydra-“ the pain catches him unawares, and he screams again, alerting every Hydra goon in the area to his presence. His vision starts to go black around the edges, and he starts to panic. He’d rather die than be captured again, but he can’t even move to kill himself if he wanted to. 

“JARVIS,” he says, high pitched and breathless, “hurry, they’re here.” He blacks out for a few minutes, comes to with a hand reaching toward him. He lashes out with his arm, and screams again as pain charges down through it. 

“Ow,” someone says with feeling- Clint. Clint’s here. He blacks out again. 

*

When he makes his way back to consciousness, half of the metal arm is visibly gone. He can’t feel his left foot anymore, but the hot stabs of burning pain down the absent arm are nearly enough to distract him from it. He’s screaming before he’s even awake, and it takes a few seconds to register the warm pressure on his right hand. Steve. 

“My leg,” he says frantically, “I fell, I can’t feel it.” He’s helpless, panicking, and if his- if he lost. 

“Shh, it’s just nerve blocks,” Steve says. He looks like he's on the verge on tears, and Bucky thinks he might be too when another wave of agony hits and he screams. 

Steve lifts up the blanket so he can see his leg, whole and intact, with some gouges where the metal arm gripped too tight. 

“Nerve blocks,” Bucky says faintly, gritting his teeth through another scream. 

“Yeah,” Steve says shakily, “we’re still trying to find a pain medication that works on you, so the doctors used local blocks.” Bucky’s body goes rigid with pain, and he’s whining loudly through his teeth, panting as he tries to let it pass through. “Where does it hurt?” Steve asks. 

“Arm,” Bucky moans, and Steve drops his hand. Bucky shakes his head, inclines it towards the metal. 

“But, you can’t feel anything there, they should have blocked it,” Steve replies, brow furrowed. 

“It’s not the arm,” Tony cuts in from behind them. “Arm’s not even there. The brain is where pain signals are processed; problem’s in the brain. We have to get the leads out.” 

“Surgery,” Bucky surmises, closing his eyes, and he starts to shake. “I won’t be able to keep still,” he says in a small voice, “you have to drug me, ok?” His eyes snap open, remembering. “Clint. Did I hurt Clint?” 

Steve winces. “He’s a little bruised.” 

“Don’t lie to me,” Bucky grits out. 

“It’s bad bruising; you hit him in the chest with the metal arm. But you weren’t exactly with it; you didn’t even break any bones. He’s going to be ok.” Steve is holding his hand again. Bucky bites his tongue when another wave of pain hits, and tastes blood. 

“Sorry,” Bucky says, and now he’s really crying. “I was being stupid, ‘s my fault, tell him I’m sorry.” 

“Ok, we’re sedating,” Tony says, but Steve grabs Dr. Cho’s hand where it’s moving toward the IV. 

“Wait. Buck, you ok with this?” Steve says, squeezing his hand. 

Bucky turns his face towards Steve, away from the metal arm. His whole body is shaking, out of his control. “’S ok, just- make it stop,” he says, and he sees the doctor push something into the IV. After a minute, he feels himself starting to go weak, but he fights it. 

“Steve,” he says urgently, “just don’t make me watch, ok? Cover my eyes, or somethin’.” Steve looks horrified; he covers his mouth and doesn’t answer, blinking through tears. 

“Please,” Bucky begs, feeling his tongue go weird, words slurring. 

“Shh,” Steve says, “it’s ok, you won’t see it. We’re gonna take care of you.” He smoothes the hair back from Bucky’s forehead. “You’re safe.” 

“Ok,” the Asset says, and falls somewhere dark and empty. 

*

He wakes up slowly, not all at once, but he knows he hasn’t been dreaming. Waking up from sleep, even a deep one, still gives the body an awareness that time has passed; there is a small part of consciousness that processes the sensory input of his surroundings, ready to wake at any moment. 

Cryo and wipes are not like sleeping; they are a deep pit of blankness, time out of his awareness. He assumes this is what it was like before he was born, and what it will be like when he finally dies. Only frightening to the living person facing it. 

Unfreezing from cryo is full-body agony, the asset remembers. It’s cramping muscles and vomiting and the slow return of the control of his faculties. This must be a wipe; his head hurts, though it’s the easiest one he can remember. He doesn’t think he’s seizing. Maybe he just doesn’t remember. He probes further, but all he can come up with is a memory of Rumlow, _have you tried turning it off and back on again?_ A joke. 

He feels a hand on his forehead, and cants up into it. Pierce likes that. Pierce will make sure he is functional. He’s had worse wipes, where they left him alone for hours sitting in his own piss until he could walk on his own. 

He opens his eyes, and there’s a blond man looking anxiously back at him. He’s a bit fuzzy around the edges. The Asset doesn’t remember Pierce ever looking anxious. He clears his throat. 

“Sir,” he says, and Pierce frowns. 

“Hey, Buck,” Pierce says. “Do you remember what happened?” 

He blinks. Buck-Bucky Barnes. That’s not right. He looks over at the tech in his peripheral vision, a woman with red hair. “Natalia?” he says, but that’s not right. “Natasha.”

“James?” she greets. 

“No, I,” Bucky starts. “Sorry. I remember now.” The crack of his collarbone, the thud onto the fire escape. He wiggles his toes, and moves his legs, both of them, and sighs in relief. 

“That was the Asset,” Natasha says, sure. “I think I’m getting better at this.”

“Yes,” Bucky says hoarsely. “He’s still… close?” 

Natasha nods. “Yes, when you’re vulnerable.”

Steve is being carefully unreadable, which tells Bucky everything he needs to know. 

“She told you,” he says, and Steve nods. Bucky looks up at the ceiling. “I guess I understand that. Does everyone know?” 

“No,” Steve reassures him. “Just us. How’s the pain?” 

“It’s,” Bucky frowns, “not as bad as it should be. They did surgery?” 

“Yeah,” Steve sighs, “they did as much as they could to fix your shoulder, took out the leads so they wouldn’t hurt you. But reattaching the arm, making sure this doesn’t happen again… that’s going to be another surgery. If you want it,” he adds hastily. 

Bucky nods. “I don’t have to do it now, right?” he says quietly, looking away. 

“No,” Steve says, touching his shoulder lightly, “you just need to heal, ok? And let someone know if you need more pain meds.”

Bucky’s brow furrows. “Those don’t work on me.”

Steve looks at him. “Well, not like most people, but… who told you that?” 

Hydra. Of course they hadn’t bothered trying. They’d broken bones while they were torturing Bucky, just to measure how long it took them to heal. “Nevermind.” He surveys the room, bright white and sterile, with the sickeningly familiar smell of disinfectant. “When can I leave?”

“They want you under observation,” Steve says slowly, following Bucky’s gaze. “But, you know what, I got eyes. Doctors won’t be more than a couple floors away, and JARVIS can do vitals.”

Natasha nods. “I’ll get a wheelchair.” Bucky tries to swing his legs over the side of the bed to stand, but she crosses her arms. “Sit,” she commands, the word going straight to Bucky’s back brain. He doesn’t move again until she gets back. 

He’s wheeled to the elevator, then to his bedroom, and Steve lifts him easily onto the bed, fluffs a couple pillows and props them behind his head. “Thanks,” he says, ashamed. “God,” he laughs, “when did I get so damn needy?” 

Natasha laughs, a short bark. “I have yet to see it.” 

Steve studies him for a moment. “You were always damn needy. Don’t you remember?” 

Bucky shuffles into the pillows, tilts his head. Steve sits down next to him. 

“You used to come home smelling like fish or grease or whatever,” Steve smiles, “and then you’d lay on top of me where I was minding my own business, drawing or reading. And I’d push you off, tell you to go take a shower, and you’d pout.” Steve puts a hand on his head, and Bucky moves slightly into it, giving permission. He closes his eyes. “And then you’d smell less like fish and more like soap,” he runs his fingers through the strands, gently working through tangles, “and you’d put your big fat face between my hand and the paper, because it wasn’t enough that you were all over top’a me.”

He can picture it, and it’s vivid enough to be real, the worn thin armrests on the couch, Steve’s exasperated smile. “Yeah, I remember now, I think.” 

Steve laughs. “It’d be, ‘my back’s sore, Steve, rub it,’ or, ‘I’m hungry, why don’t you make some eggs?’ And I’d be like, ‘make your own damn eggs, you got hands.’”

Bucky looks over to the wrapped empty socket, where he knows the metal supports must be sticking out of the flesh. He’s glad he doesn’t have to look at it. He raises the flesh hand, wiggles it. “I only got one, now,” he pouts, “how will I even lift the pan?” He flutters his eyelashes dramatically, and Steve chokes. 

“Shameless,” Steve says, his voice thick. He traces a finger down the side of Bucky’s jaw, curls it to rub against the stubble. “You had a different girl every weekend, too. They all loved you, though. Dunno how.” 

Bucky thinks about that for a moment, then raises his fingers in a v, flicks his tongue between them, raises an eyebrow. Natasha snorts from where she’s perched on the edge of the bed. 

Steve gasps. “Well, I never!” He flicks Bucky’s ear. “Wasn’t that, though. Well, maybe some of that. You were just- handsy. Touchy. Real cuddly.” 

“You liked it,” Bucky says, not sure if he’s remembering right. 

“I loved it,” Steve confirms. “Woulda had to put me on the rack for that confession, though, at the time.” 

Bucky sighs, lets the Asset come forward. He’s done kicking him when he’s down. Besides, it looks like there’s precedent for this anyway. “Can you sleep with me?”

Steve looks soft, happy. “Sure. Let me,” he takes off his pants, rolls back the covers and shuffles in with his boxers and t-shirt.

“Natasha?” Bucky asks, and she shakes her head. 

“I sleep alone,” she says, not unkindly. “I’ll be back when you wake up.” 

Bucky keeps eye contact, nods to let her know he understands. “Good night.”

“Afternoon,” she corrects with a smile, and squeezes his hand before she goes. 

Steve lays down on his side, and Bucky surveys him. “You stay there, he says, and Steve gives him a sloppy salute. Bucky shoves one of his giant shoulders down, pats it to his liking, and lays his head on it. “Don’t move,” he instructs, and wiggles around. “Hm. This is good.” He settles. “Painkillers are good. Thanks.” 

“When didn’t they give you painkillers?” Steve says, and he feels stiff. “You said you watched it; do you mean before, with the arm?”

Bucky sucks in a breath. 

“Sorry,” Steve apologizes quickly. “I’m sorry, you don’t have to answer that.” 

Bucky turns toward him with a sigh. “No, just. This conversation requires a lot more-“ he picks Steve’s hand up and puts it on his hair. Steve pets through it. “How much of the truth do you want, here? I already made you cry once today, and I know how you feel about this stuff.” 

“I want it all,” Steve says stubbornly. “And, the things they did to you,” he pets Bucky’s hair more firmly, “I’m upset because I’m not a monster, alright?” 

Bucky hums. “Alright. They never gave me painkillers. Or sedatives. At first, it was probably because it didn’t make much sense with the torture and all. Later… I don’t know. Maybe they thought it’d be a deterrent from getting myself injured. They were really into that whole ‘order through pain’ thing.” 

Steve sighs into his hair. “Wish I could say I was surprised. I have another question.” 

There’s a pause where Steve is clearly waiting for permission. “Well, can’t answer it if I don’t know what it is, can I?” Bucky mutters. 

“You thought I was Pierce, when you woke up.” There’s another question there, and Bucky can guess it. 

“Yeah,” he hums. “Mighta been part of why he was so good at handling me. If you saw the pictures when he was younger; there was some resemblance. Enough, probably.” The hand in his hair stills, and Bucky makes a protesting noise. “Hold up your end of the bargain, Rogers. If you say you want more of this, you’re agreeing to make me breakfast in the morning.” 

Steve resumes the stroking, letting his fingers move through the hair to his scalp. “Tell me.” 

“Dunno what to say. He was nicer than anyone else. ‘Course, that was just to get me to cooperate when I wasn’t runnin’ on all cylinders and thought giving myself a handjob was a gift from God.” He laughs. “Remember when they told us jerking it made you sterile?” 

“He raped you,” Steve says, clearly trying to control his tone. Bucky flinches. 

“Do I look like someone who got raped?” he asks, turning. “Cause my therapists keep saying shit like, ‘you couldn’t consent when you were being coerced, even if you didn't say no at the time,' yadda yadda, and I know they weren’t talking about the murdering.” 

“They have your files,” Steve says, his hand stilling. “They had enough to piece it together. They’re psychologists.” 

“You’re no lightweight either,” Bucky observes. 

“I pay attention,” Steve says simply. 

“Yeah, well.” Bucky shifts, uncomfortable. “He wasn’t the kind of sadistic insecure jack-off Rumlow was, you know? He, shit.” Bucky bites his tongue for a minute. “He used lube, and I thanked him.” Steve keeps up the petting, _keep going_.

“It wasn’t just that, though,” Bucky grabs Steve’s other hand to distract himself, plays with his fingers. “He was there when I came out of a wipe. Brushed my hair, showered me. Told me I was good, that I was his best Asset. That I’d changed the world, and I had to suffer to do it. I believed it because he did; he really thought that, that I was the sacrifice needed to make a better world,” he mused. “Not that it was much of a sacrifice. I was just a weapon. Didn’t realize he’d been the one who ordered me wiped in the first place, of course. Or that I just sat in the chair when he told me to, took the bite guard.” He looks down, away from Steve, ashamed. 

“I wanted his approval. More than the wipes, more than anything. He made me feel like I had a purpose, that there was a reason that I suffered. That, when it was over, I would get to rest, have someone tell me I’d done something right.” The hand disappears from his hair, and Bucky turns, confused. The shame starts to creep in. 

Steve is wiping tears from his eyes, and it stops the shame cold. “Aw, Steve,” Bucky says, wiping at his cheeks. 

“Sorry,” Steve chokes. 

“You’re not mad at me, then?” Bucky asks, guarded. 

At that, Steve starts to sob. He’s not a pretty crier; he doesn’t have much practice at it. Expressing it, anyway- he’s been sad plenty, but he’s more the go blank and withdrawn type when it comes to his own problems. His breath hitches. “Why would I- it’s not your fault, Buck.” 

“You really mean that,” Bucky says, and Steve just looks at him. “C’mere, shh,” Bucky soothes, rolling back and extending his arm. 

Steve curls gingerly into his side, careful of Bucky’s injuries, and hides his face. Bucky runs a hand down his back until he calms down. 

“I have something to tell you, in the morning,” Steve mumbles. “I’m not keeping it a secret, but I don’t want to do it right now. I just wanted you to know.” 

“Ok,” Bucky says. He ruffles his fingers through Steve’s hair. “Thanks.” 

Steve looks up, wiping his splotchy eyes. “For what?” 

“Caring, I think,” Bucky drops a kiss on his forehead. “It’s like, I can’t feel it for myself, but I know I should.” 

Steve leans up, and Bucky acquiesces, giving him a chaste kiss. 

Steve falls asleep first, but once Bucky follows, he sleeps several hours through. 

*

When Bucky rolls himself gingerly out of bed and makes his way to the kitchen, Steve’s already there with a stack of pancakes. 

“Oh, good,” Steve says absently. “I can start the eggs.” 

Bucky laughs, sits down, and pulls the pancakes toward himself. “Man of your word.” When Steve’s eggs make an appearance, they're heavenly, fluffy with just the right amount of milk. “Since when did you learn to cook?” Bucky moans, shoveling them down. 

“I always knew how to cook,” Steve laughs, “my mother taught me well.”

Bucky shakes his head. “You mother was a wonderful woman, god rest her soul.”

“That she was,” Steve says in a mock warning tone. 

“Couldn’t cook worth beans,” Bucky finishes, and Steve sighs. 

“She was working with limited ingredients,” he offers. Bucky shakes his head. 

“Nah. I could cook just fine. Thank whoever taught you in this century for me, ok?” He swallows down the rest of his orange juice, sits back, pats his stomach happily. 

“Glad you’re eating,” Steve says honestly, still smiling. Bucky leans forward and pinches his cheek, because he can. Then he stacks the dishes and grabs them carefully with one hand, bringing them to the sink. 

“What was it that you were gonna tell me, last night?” he asks after he sets the dishes down, looking back over his shoulder. 

Steve’s smile drops instantly. “Doesn’t have to be right now.”

Bucky points at him, coffee cup dangling from one finger. “Out with it.” 

Steve looks down. “The operatives who went after you. Rumlow was there.” 

Bucky drops the mug with a clatter, but it barely registers. “Rumlow burned in the Triskelion,” he says absently, feeling himself go blank. 

Steve shakes his head, expression full of careful empathy. “We captured him.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> if you wanna see where I've been writing (also, incidentally, my tumblr): [link](http://bookish-but-corruptible.tumblr.com/post/127585045873/mt-auburn-cemetery)


	15. Chapter 15

Natasha looks at him, tight-lipped, and doesn’t move her feet from Clint’s lap. JARVIS let Bucky into her apartment after a couple of frenzied minutes of him banging on the door until she allowed him access. 

He turns to Clint. “Where is he?” He’s aware that his tone is too cold, his stance too aggressive for someone who’s trying to show his potential co-workers he can be trusted. 

“Why do you think I would know that?” Clint asks casually. 

Bucky stares at him. “You do,” he says firmly. Barton’s a decent liar, but Bucky has enough experience with torture to know when someone’s telling the truth. 

“It’s a facility in the mountains, upstate,” Clint replies, no games. “44 point five degrees north by 73 point nine degrees west.”

Bucky nods, turns to leave. 

“So what’s the plan?” Clint calls. “You gonna go in there, storm the keep?” 

“If I have to,” Bucky growls. 

“You’re going to take on a remote SHIELD facility by yourself,” Clint states, “attack friendlies, and, what, murder Rumlow in his cell? You can barely walk around on your own without painkillers right now, man.” 

Bucky turns. “I can do it with the one goddamn arm,” he snaps. “I’ve done worse.” But now he’s thinking of having to attack SHIELD agents. He hadn’t been as naïve as Steve to think SHIELD was gone, but he hadn’t anticipated being involved. He doesn’t really want to hurt them. 

“Or,” Clint offers, “I could drive up there, use my clearance.”

Bucky stares at him. Natasha looks like she could melt Hawkeye’s face with the force of her glare. 

“Better plan than yours,” Clint points out. “Stay here for a bit, I need to go convince my friend to borrow her car.” He gets up, gently displacing Natasha’s feet, and winces when he gets the full brunt of her expression. He favors his left side- because Bucky attacked him, on the fire escape. Injured him. He hangs his head in shame, wind leaving his sails. 

“Hey,” Bucky says, “I’m really sorry I hurt you. I owe you.” 

Clint actually smiles at that. “I like that. Having the Winter Soldier in my debt.” He turns back to the door, and says casually, “Natasha, don’t warn them. Trust me on this one.” 

Natasha doesn’t look very happy, but she doesn’t pick up the phone when Clint leaves either. They sit in silence for a few excruciating moments. 

“I’m gonna, uh,” Bucky says finally, “go take a shower. I’m not gonna go anywhere.” 

“отлично,” Natasha snaps. “If you get him in trouble,” she warns, threat lingering. “He’s got enough to deal with.” 

When Bucky goes back to the apartment, Steve isn’t there. He’s in the shower long enough to start thinking, looks at Rumlow from all angles. He wants him to talk, he’s sure of that. He needs to provoke him somehow. He turns off the tap, towels off. He needs-

The bottle of nail polish sits on the counter, innocuous. And god, wouldn’t that make Rumlow more uncomfortable than any intimidation tactic he could employ. 

He gets dressed, takes the bottle, and returns to Natasha. He sets the bottle down in front of her. 

“Please,” he asks, and she takes it, coolly gesturing for him to put his hand on the counter. 

“I hope you both know what you’re doing,” she says, shaking her head. He stays very still, and doesn’t answer. He’s not sure what he’s doing, exactly. He trusts Clint, who seems to know Bucky better than he knows himself right now. It’s easy to underestimate Clint; he goofs around a lot, gets banged up constantly, gives off the impression of someone vulnerable and not too bright. Bucky knows it’s intentional. 

Clint eventually makes his way back, calls Bucky down via JARVIS. Natasha, to his surprise, follows him. 

Clint’s waiting to meet him in the garage. He’s not the only one. 

Steve is standing there in civvies and sneakers, head exposed and bare, shield in hand. He looks conflicted, but he’s standing his ground. Bucky pauses. 

“I can’t let you do this,” Steve says, gripping the shield tighter. “I don’t care what happens to Rumlow,” he says, and Bucky’s honestly not sure if he believes him. “But this isn’t the right way to do it.” 

“Let me handle this,” Clint says to Steve. Steve just frowns, juts out his chin, like he’s making himself taller, like he doesn’t know he’s as immovable as a goddamn mountain. Bucky knows he can’t reason with Steve like this; he’s decided what’s right and what’s wrong, and he’s not going to budge. 

“Steve,” Natasha says suddenly, and her tone is calm, commanding, but not sharp in a way that would make Steve bristle. “Stand down. Let Clint handle this.” 

Steve and Natasha look at each other for a long moment, silently communicating. Then Steve sighs, and lets the shield hang down by his side. Bucky gapes for a moment. He’s never seen anything like it. 

Bucky moves to get in the driver’s seat of the car. The bright purple car. 

“Oh, no you don’t,” Clint says. “You’re in no condition to drive. You get shotgun.” 

Bucky acquiesces, moves over. Natasha has moved in toward Steve, who is whispering to her and making helpless angry gestures. She’s mirroring him, her lips a thin line. He turns away. “I can’t believe this car,” he comments as Clint turns the key in the ignition. 

“What?” Clint says, adjusting the seat. “It’s a good color.”

*

Clint drives like a grandma. 

“You drive like a grandma,” Bucky says, tapping his feet on the floor. He can feel time slipping away. He could drive the hell out of this thing, if Clint only gave him a chance. 

“Cars kill people, man,” Clint says, suddenly moody. Bucky doesn’t bring it up again. 

The drive is long, and pretty as hell. It’s enough for Bucky to cool his heels, get out a couple times for food, accept Clint’s pace. Clint has also helpfully pointed out that secret facilities don’t have 9-5 visiting hours.

Eventually, the pavement becomes gravel, then gravel becomes dirt. There are a couple of branches Clint runs over with a wince, then a link of chain declaring the road “Private Property.” Clint stops in front of a barn, evening wind whistling through the slats, apparently undefended. He turns off the engine.

“No weapons,” Clint says. Bucky balks. Clint turns to him.

“You need to see him, right?” Clint challenges. “You’re not getting in there if you don’t follow my lead. He’s going to be chained to the floor, and you’re not going to use any weapons on our agents just doing their jobs, right?” 

Bucky unstraps several knives and hands them to Clint, then pulls out a 3-D printed gun from a holster on his thigh, which Clint stares at for a moment but doesn’t question. Finally, they both get out of the car. Clint stands and smiles, waving both hands. 

“Understated,” Bucky remarks at the creaky barn, closing the car door. Clint snorts. A crackle of static comes over the speaker. 

“State your intention,” a voice says from the barn. It sounds tired, and the speakers sound like they haven’t been updated in a decade. 

“Here to interrogate the prisoner,” Clint says guilelessly. 

“Hawkeye,” the voice responds. “I hope you don’t think we’re stupid enough to not recognize the Winter Solider.”

“Eh,” Hawkeye shrugs. “Don’t worry about him. He’s ‘armless.” Bucky looks skyward. “Besides,” Clint continues, “if I remember correctly, Maria Hill herself put him on the friendlies list.” 

“He’s Hydra,” the voice over the speaker says, hatred poorly disguised. Bucky cracks his knuckles against his thigh. 

“Cut the crap,” Clint says. “ _Used to be_ Hydra. You know what I used to be, right? And Black Widow, who dragged Rumlow’s ass in here a couple days ago? You don’t actually have the authority to refuse an Avenger entry, and I don’t care about whatever grudge it is you’re holding.” 

The speaker static cuts out, and the barn doors swing open mechanically. Clint nods, and motions for Bucky to follow. The interior of the barn is dark, infested with spiders and ancient cobwebs blowing in the breeze, dimly illuminated by the waning light. Still, when the steel vault leading beneath the barn opens to a set of concrete steps, upon which a few SHIELD agents stand watching them. In front is a man with brown, curling hair and a medium complexion, average in every way, but somehow familiar. 

“Barton,” the man says, refusing to acknowledge Bucky. Then it clicks. The man had been on the helicarrier with a score of other SHIELD agents, moving towards the jets to give Cap air support. He’d been one of the very few who’d survived the Winter Soldier’s sudden and vicious attack. Bucky remembered the look of shock on the man’s face before he’d turned away to pursue his mission, clear and lingering in his mind. 

The man smiles at him, crooked and knowing. He saw Bucky recognize him. The man turns back to Clint. “This is on your head,” he informs him, and lets them down a concrete tunnel. The place has aged, groundwater welling up in places, but it's sturdy, secure. It has to be one of the few sites that hadn’t been included in the info dump. 

If Bucky hadn’t been paying close attention to every twist and turn, he’d be completely lost by now. Honestly, he’d expected to end up in one of these places himself, locked up with the key thrown away, too rabid to ever be let out of the hole and given the chance to rejoin society. 

He’s been goddamn lucky. Steve and Natasha have been protecting him. 

Bucky is surprised when the guards hang back in front of an unmarked door, allowing them to enter. Clint looks at Bucky, assessing; whatever he sees makes him stand back too. 

“You have a few minutes, max, before that guy gets better orders,” Clint whispers, and Bucky swallows, makes himself reach out and turn the creaking handle. Bucky almost reconsiders going in; it unnerves him to imagine the heavy door clicking shut behind him, no windows, no way out. But he’s come this far, and Clint nods to him, standing outside the door, a promise to be there when he knocks. 

Bucky goes in, and finds he can’t step forward. The room isn’t big enough; any further and he’ll be within reach of the length of chain that allows Rumlow to pace the room. Rumlow looks up at him, spitting and furious, and it looks like he burned in the Triskelion after all. 

For a long moment, a tide of panic Bucky wasn’t expecting sweeps over him, irrational and intense. He schools his features, rides it out. He never felt this around Rumlow before, no matter what he did. He never felt much in particular, besides pain and shame. But now Rumlow’s there, alive, his movements bringing back a sharp flood of memories. Rumlow has that look on his face like he’s pissed and ready to work it out on the soldier. Rumlow had always been impressed by the level of punishment the soldier could take without breaking. Bucky breathes in slowly through his nose. 

“You let them take the arm, huh?” Rumlow spits out. Bucky stares at him, silent and emotionless. Rumlow shifts onto his feet, trying to make himself look bigger. He’s not as imposing as Bucky remembers; he looks like a trapped, wounded animal, biting frantically at the bars of his cage. Bucky knows the feeling. 

Rumlow takes in Bucky’s jeans and loose hoodie, his hair gathered up in a bun. “They made you look almost human,” he remarks, scanning him. He settles on Bucky’s nail polish, and something in Bucky crows in victory when his brow wrinkles in disgust. 

“Shit,” Rumlow says, “Knew you were a faggot. The way you groveled at Pierce was fuckin’ disgusting.” Bucky wants to say that’s rich, coming from Rumlow, who couldn’t get enough of his ass- but he guesses that makes sense to a guy like him. He waits out the attempt to goad him, listens. Rumlow paces. 

“You know, if you’d just done your goddamn _job_ ,” Rumlow starts, escalates to shouting, “we’d all be living like _kings_ now, you know that?” 

“Pierce would,” Bucky says finally. “You’re just another soldier to Hydra. I’d be decommissioned.” 

Rumlow shakes his head, leans against the wall, shoulders hunched in. “I used to look up to you, you know? The perfect soldier. You’re fucking pathetic,” he grunts. “Why are you even here if you’re not gonna take your chance?” He spreads his arms wide. 

Bucky thinks about that for a moment. He thought he knew, but Rumlow’s only been in here a few days and he’s half-feral. He's not feeling what he thought he would. “I don’t want to be a perfect soldier,” Bucky says slowly, remembering something he read at the Smithsonian exhibit. “I want to be a good man.” 

Rumlow laughs out loud at that, grating and a little hysterical. “Oh yeah,” he says, “you’re a goddamn shining beacon.” Rumlow runs at him, jerking hard on his chains. Bucky doesn’t flinch. “Hydra’s going to get you back eventually,” he hisses, “and whatever you think you are, they’re gonna pull it right back out of you, you sorry bastard. You’re a goddamn weapon. And after all this shit you’ve pulled, I’m gonna have fun reminding you.” He looks up, and Bucky remembers that look, but he feels oddly detached now, doesn’t connect it to an emotion. “One wipe,” Rumlow grins nastily, “one wipe, and you lose everything, Asset.” 

“I know,” Bucky says simply, maintaining eye contact. “You’re right.” Rumlow stares at him. “They might get me,” Bucky continues, “but they’re not gonna come for you. You’re just a body to them. They don’t know where you are, and if they did they wouldn’t risk the resources. You’re never getting out.” Bucky states it like the fact it is, watches Rumlow curiously. 

“Do you know what happens a week after you’re left in a cage? Maybe you start carving notches in the wall because you think it means something, but how ‘bout a month? A year? A few years?” Bucky shrugs. “I started hallucinating after two weeks. I tried to kill myself after three. Anything in here you think you could do that with?” Rumlow scoffs, gives him his best unimpressed look, but his eyes dart to the sides. 

“There won’t be a trial for you. You don’t have anyone who cares about you. You’ll be forgotten quickly enough. Your body’s gonna waste away ‘till you can’t walk a mile, much less run one. Mind’s gonna go first, though.” 

“I’m gonna make you bleed, you miserable fuck!” Rumlow shouts, shaking. “I’m gonna put you through cryo just to watch you scream, you’re gonna be so sorry you’re gonna piss yourself and beg me to stop, and then I’ll cut your tongue out of your fucking mouth-“

“Scream all you want,” Bucky says coolly. “It’s not gonna change shit.” He knocks on the door. “Oh, and Rumlow?” the door opens, and Bucky pauses. “If you do ever get out… I will come for you.” Rumlow’s pathetic, and Bucky’s happy to let him rot in here, but he’s still dangerous. 

The door shuts behind him, cutting Rumlow off. Bucky realizes distantly that his legs are shaking, and it’s not exhaustion from the surgery. 

“How did you know what I’d do?” he asks Clint. 

“I didn’t,” Clint raises the uninjured shoulder. Bucky leans against the wall. “Let’s get out of here,” he says, and they make their way back up out of the pit. Before they enter the barn, Bucky pauses, turns to the man with the curling brown hair. 

“I know it probably doesn’t mean anything,” Bucky says to him, “but I’m sorry.”

“It doesn’t,” the man says evenly. “Sorry doesn’t bring back the dead.” 

Bucky nods, accepts that. 

They head out to their little purple car in a field of whirring cicadas, turn on the headlights, and make their way down the dirt road, then the gravel. They’re at the edge of civilization when they reach a sign for an overlook.

“Hey, Clint,” Bucky says hesitantly. “Can we pull over?” 

Clint nods, parks, turns off the headlights. Bucky gets out and walks over to a picnic bench, looking out at the valley. He doesn’t think he’s ever seen this many stars before, but it’s possible he just doesn’t remember yet.

“I used to dream about things like this,” Bucky says, gesturing. “Don’t know how long I was locked up. Felt like forever.” 

They stay there for a while, until Bucky realizes guiltily that Clint’s nodding off. 

“Hey,” he says, startling Clint back awake. “Why don’t we go find a hotel?” He holds out his hand. “I can drive like a grandma, too.”

Clint hands him the keys, stands, and pats him on the back as he passes.

Bucky drives them to an old but decently clean looking motel. Clint's out as soon as he hits the pillow; Bucky decides to prowl for free food. 

The woman working the overnight shift is fat and kind-looking. She's watching TV, and looks up when Bucky passes. 

"Thank you for your service," she says, and Bucky realizes she's looking at the empty, knotted sleeve. 

"Uh," Bucky says eloquently, "thanks." He looks at a couple of stale biscuits. 

"Those are better," she points to the pre-packaged cinnamon rolls with a wink. He takes two, and flees back to his room.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is where the GPS coordinates go; if you want to have even more fun, look up the county: [link](https://www.google.com/maps/place/Hawkeye,+NY+12985/@44.5194906,-73.859033,13z/data=!4m2!3m1!1s0x4cca54ac77eb9ef7:0x865c740ec3d8a65b) (yes, this is a joke)
> 
> also, in case you weren't aware, Clint's parents were killed in a car accident
> 
> Thar be the beginnings of the porn in the next chapter


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> whoops this is more emotions porn than porn-porn. oh well. if you haven't figured out this story loves angst, there's no help for you. 
> 
> that being said, i do take porn-porn requests, in this universe or not :)
> 
> edit: i think this chapter is not right and ugh weird sex idk feel free to skip it. i was going to edit but that kept me from writing anything, so.

As soon as Bucky returns, the Avengers Assemble alert blares. When he steps through the door and nearly runs into Steve, decked out in his Cap uniform, he windmills in place. It’s embarrassingly less effective with one arm. Steve catches him. 

“Thank God you’re back,” Steve says, not bothering to hide his relief, and wraps his arms around Bucky in a hug that cracks Bucky’s back. Bucky takes a moment to reflect that Steve is probably being sincere, and still believes in a God. 

“Barton called you,” Bucky replies, strained. Steve lets him go. 

“Yeah, but,” Steve hugs him again. “Sorry, I have to,” Steve points down the hall. “You ok?”

Bucky shrugs. “Sure.” Steve works his jaw, grips the edge of the shield and lifts it behind himself. He practically slams it into place. 

“Rumlow,” Steve growls, and the alarm blares again, cutting him off. Bucky motions him away. 

“Stay _here_ ,” Steve calls. “Stay safe, please. You’re still recovering from surgery.” And then he’s gone in a flash of red, white, and blue. Bucky can’t believe he’s still wearing the outfit. It makes his ass look fucking fantastic, though. 

Bucky contemplates this as he reaches for the cookie dough ice cream in the fridge. He moans when he takes the first bite, and has JARVIS stream him the news, settling in for the evening. He figures he’s caused Steve enough stress for a day or two. 

Steve is gone for more than a day or two. By the third day, Bucky ventures outside with a credit card and a vague need to expand his wardrobe. 

He walks into the first clothing store he sees, a Manhattan monstrosity with three floors. He looks around, sees a salesperson move towards him, and walks back out. 

There’s no way he’s going to know what’s acceptable for someone his age. Gender. Location. Occupation? Jesus fucking Christ. He used to be good at this. 

He decides to spend some time in Central Park sitting on a bench, watching people go by, and figures out a baseline of what seems to be the norm. His eyes follow one guy with a circle-necked t-shirt, not too wide to look silly, but just enough that it seems a bit more feminine. 

There are also shirts with a small row of buttons at the top. They look like the soft cotton everything seems to be made out of these days. 

He has a mission- a goal, in mind. He walks back to the store, and goes through the doors, flashing a smile at the saleswoman. It’s effective. Barnes is doing well. 

*

Bucky is listening to music when he hears the shouting through his headphones. JARVIS had alerted him that the Avengers were returning an hour ago; it sounds like Steve and Nat are back. He disentangles the headphones, fiddles with the open neck of his new t-shirt, and pads out of his bedroom, chases the voices to Steve’s room. The door is open, hanging askew- the hinge is bent. 

“I _am_ in control!” Steve shouts, and Bucky can hear the rough thump of something slamming to the floor. He steps through the door- Steve is stripping off his armor, throwing it carelessly across the room. At least he doesn’t look injured. When Bucky quietly steps in, he doesn’t even notice. 

“You’re erratic,” Natasha snaps, flicking her hair angrily away from her face. “We can’t rely on you like this.” 

Steve looks wounded, pissed. “I would never, ever put my team’s life in danger, no matter what-“

“Not us!” Natasha shouts, and she has come a long way from that young woman who hid her uncertainty and anger behind an impenetrable wall of ice. “You! Your life, Steve!”

“I’m fine,” Steve says sharply, and another tug of armor reveals a dark like of bruising down his arm. Bucky winces. 

“No,” Natasha says. “You’re not allowed to act like a child. Deal with your problems, or you’re leaving active duty.” 

Steve’s eyes flash. Bucky winces again. “You gonna make me?” he challenges. “Tell them I’m unstable?” 

Natasha shakes her head. “You pigheaded idiot.” She shifts her stance, planting her feet, surveys the room. “I have a better idea.” Her voice drops, and her eyes go hard. “Get on your knees,” she commands, and damn. She isn’t kidding. 

Steve crosses his arms, leans his weight casually on one foot. “What the hell?” 

Even Bucky doesn’t see it coming. Natasha’s a red blur of movement, jumping and pushing off the counter to gain height, until her thighs are slamming against Steve’s shoulders before they wrap around his neck, propelling him backwards onto the couch. Bucky can literally hear the breath being knocked out of him. But Steve doesn’t try to fight back, doesn’t even move. Natasha slides down into his lap, knocks Steve’s hands away when they automatically move to circle her waist. Bucky sees Steve register his presence, but he’s understandably occupied. 

Steve huffs and squirms, clearly interested. He looks at Natasha, asking.

“Knees,” she reminds him. He keeps looking at her, measured, and doesn't move. 

“What if I say no?” he tries. 

“Then we stop,” Natasha says automatically. She shifts backwards until she’s standing over him, and waits. 

Steve slides up onto the balls of his feet, pulls himself forward, off the couch, and sinks down onto his knees. He ducks his head. 

“Look at me,” Natasha says, firm, but not cruel. Steve looks up into her eyes, and she stares at him for a moment, nods. “Good boy,” she says, approving. 

Steve grimaces. “You don’t have to coddle me,” he says shortly. He still looks pissed, but there’s something else there now, uncertain. 

“I’ll coddle you as much as I want,” Natasha rebukes sharply. “That’s not your call to make.” She sits on the couch, legs splayed, Steve kneeling between them. She runs a hand through his hair. “Would a traffic light system work for you? Green for you’re good, go ahead, yellow for slow down and talk, red for stop?”

Steve blinks at her. “I don’t need that,” he says, like he’s being treated with kid gloves. 

“I do,” Natasha replies. “I need to be able to trust you to say if I’m hurting you, that you’re uncomfortable, or that you want me to stop. Can you do that?” 

Steve presses into her hand, maintaining eye contact. “Yes. I understand.” 

“Good boy,” she says, running her fingers through the strands, hypnotic. “Is there anything you know you don’t want me to do?”

Steve shakes his head. “You can do whatever you want. Hurt me. I need it. Gets me out of my own head.” 

Natasha hums, considering. “You want me to drag you down and fuck you?” 

Steve looks down, flushes. “Yes.”

Natasha smiles. “Not today. That sounds like fun, though. Today…” she looks around the room. “I think you need to come down, a little.” She runs a finger over his cheekbone. “You’re so cute when you blush, Rogers. Strip.” 

Steve flushes deeper, and acquiesces. Bucky stares, entranced. 

“You wanna take a more comfortable seat, James?” Natasha calls. “Or would you rather go?” 

Bucky moves over to the chair. Natasha looks him over. 

“You look very nice, James,” Natasha compliments. “Shirt’s a good color for you.” She’s eyeing the open-necked shirt, his hair brushing his shoulders. He fiddles with his right ear, tugging on the grey stud. It’s starting to be a nervous habit. He winks at her, and she snorts, dropping her hand back into Steve’s hair. And he’s- 

Completely nude, kneeling at Natasha’s fully clothed body, the blush going all the way down his chest, which rises and falls with each breath. He’s looking up at her, wanting but unsure, closed-off. His cock is chubbing up between his legs, his lips slightly parted. He’s beautiful. He’s so damn beautiful. Bucky swallows. 

“That’s very good,” Natasha says, and Steve ducks away, uncomfortable. “That’s hard for you to hear, isn’t it?” she asks. “What’s your color?”

Steve clears his throat. “Green,” he says, keeping his tone even. 

“Thank you,” Natasha says, sincere. “Do you know how to use your mouth?” Bucky’s fingernails are making dents in the palm of his hand. 

Steve smiles crookedly. “USO,” he says, and Natasha laughs, kicks him gently in the side. 

“Good,” she says. “James,” Bucky turns toward her, “can you get me the blue dildo and the harness from my sock drawer?”

Bucky stands. “Yes ma’am,” he says, and throws her a salute. She grins at him, then refocuses her attention.

“That ok with you?” Natasha asks Steve. “You want to get me nice and hard so I can fuck you?” 

Steve nods, kisses her knee through the material of her pants, moves upward. Natasha’s breath hitches. Steve pulls back. “Is… you’re not just doing this to deal with me, are you?”

Natasha snorts, tugs on his hair. “Rogers, I’ve been wanting to bend you over and fuck your cute little ass for _months_. I’m… seizing the opportunity.” She puts her legs on his shoulders. “Now take off my pants,” she orders. “Show me how much you want it.” 

Bucky takes his opportunity to slide away, shaking his head. Natasha had never lacked confidence, and once she had a goal in mind, nothing could stop her. 

There are quite a few dildos in the sock drawer. The blue one is…impressive. Not too long, and not a monster either, but definitely wide. He’s not sure what he feels when he sees it. He doesn’t know if he’s dying to see Steve spread wide on Natasha’s cock, moaning as he struggles to take it, or if he’s afraid it’ll hurt Steve. He turns it over in his hands, takes the harness, and goes back to Steve’s apartment. 

Steve is buried in Natasha’s cunt, her fingers clenching tight in his hair. He moans when she tugs him back up to her clit. Bucky can see the pink flick of his tongue, warm and wet against her. 

“Right there,” she says, “more pressure…” she moans, shifts her hips with a sigh. “Yes,” she praises. “Good boy.” She threads her fingers gently through his hair, scrapes her lacquered nails over the back of his neck, making him moan. Bucky wants to touch the soft, feminine curve of her hips, kiss the plane of her belly, rub his cheek on the soft, sparse hair on her thighs. They’re things he hasn’t felt in a long time. 

“Ok,” she sighs, pushes on Steve’s shoulders. “Look at me.” Steve moves backward, looks up. She runs a hand thoughtfully down the side of his neck, then wraps it loosely around his throat. Her fingers trail down his chest, touching and groping. Steve stays still, lets her touch wherever she wants to. 

She wraps her fingers delicately around the head of his cock, strokes him. Steve lets out a shocky gasp. “Keep looking at me,” Natasha instructs. “I want you to show me. Don’t come.” 

Steve worries his lip, nods. He settles his legs wider, allowing her access. 

“That’s it,” she praises, and Bucky sits back down in the chair. “What’s your color?”

“G-green,” Steve’s breath catches when she squeezes his cock, and he lets it out shakily. 

“I know this is hard for you,” Natasha says, and her expression goes soft. “You’re probably used to being bent over, being able to hide. I’m proud of you.” 

Steve stiffens, looks away. 

“Praise makes you uncomfortable,” Natasha notes softly. “That’s ok.” She strokes his cock more firmly, and Steve’s lips part as he draws in a breath. “Don’t come,” she reminds him. Steve grips his thighs, tamps down an abortive thrust. His cock is fully hard, leaking at the tip. 

“You’re still so tense,” Natasha notes with a frown, dropping her hand and squeezing the tight muscles in his shoulder. She stands, strips off her shirt, unhooks her bra. “Follow me,” she says, and Steve does. She looks back at Bucky. “Both of you.” 

Bucky follows her into the bedroom, where she pushes Steve down onto his back. “Where do you keep your lube?” she asks. Bucky sits in a chair. Natasha looks at him, gauging where he’s at, asking with her eyes. He nods, gives her a thumbs-up. 

Steve leans over and opens his nightstand drawer in response. 

“Convenient,” Natasha says simply, and takes the bottle, sets it on the bed. “Oh,” she pulls out a condom packet. “What do you think?” she asks. 

Steve licks his lips. “Green,” he says quickly. “Definitely green.” 

Natasha leans down and kisses him, smiling. It has the added benefit of grinding against Steve’s dick and making him squirm. Finally, she moves back, opens the packet, and rolls the condom down over his dick. His hips jump, and she tsks. 

“No,” she says, wrapping a hand around his throat in warning. “Hands at your sides. And if you wanna get fucked,” she squeezes lightly, “you’d better not come.” Steve _whimpers_. So does Bucky, very quietly. 

Natasha is gorgeous when she lowers herself onto Steve’s cock, head tipping back, breathing deeply as she takes him. The tips of her nipples are tight and flushed, powerful muscles flexing as she steadies herself. Steve is panting beneath her, gripping the sheets to keep himself from touching her, taking over. She bottoms out with a sigh, grinding down. Then she starts up a steady pace, measured, agonizingly slow. Bucky winces in sympathy. 

“Natasha,” Steve moans, “Natasha.” She speeds up her pace, and he cries out. 

“There you go,” she says, tracing his jaw, then pressing the hand back to his throat. “Don’t come,” she reminds him. She pulls herself up to the very tip of his cock, wet from her cunt, and takes him again in one quick movement. Then she does it again. Steve’s head thrashes. 

“Look at me,” she commands him, and he does, eyes open. 

“Natasha,” he pleads, and she leans down and kisses him. 

“I’m right here,” he assures him. “Just a bit longer.” She rocks against his pubic bone, stimulating her clit every time she presses forward. She lets out a harsh breath. 

“Can’t,” Steve protests, “Natasha-“ 

She takes the hand she’s using to steady herself, and reaches it behind her, tugs on his balls. “You can,” she corrects. “Color?”

Steve looks at her for a moment, then remembers. “Green,” he says, and she speeds up her rocking motions, pressing him down deep inside of her, chasing her orgasm. 

“Don’t come,” she warns him, “don’t come-“ 

Steve sobs, and Natasha’s expression is gentle when she cradles his face. “Good boy,” she says, and it comes out as a soft growl. She brings her hand down to her clit, flicks in a rough motion. “Good-“ she growls, and comes, tightening down with her cunt, gasping a breath when she rides through it. 

When she’s done, breathing evening out, she wipes a tear away from Steve’s cheek, and gently pulls off, knots the condom. 

“You need to be fucked?” she asks him, and he nods, looks away, hiding. 

“It’s ok,” she says, turning him back to her. She presses his knees up, and he gets the picture, keeping them in place. “You want it like this?” she asks. He nods. She looks at Bucky, holds out her hand. He brings her the harness and the dildo, and she lifts up and squeezes his hand. She steps through the loops of the harness, and looks back at him. 

“Tighten it for me?” she asks, and he acquiesces. She takes a moment to look at him. “You doing ok?”

He is. This is- different. He’s not sure he could say why he feels the sense of calm he does instead of panic. But it’s right. This is ok. 

“Yes,” he replies, and goes back to the chair. Natasha snaps open the bottle of lube, and Steve’s hips jump, pavlovian. 

She starts with two fingers, rubs them at Steve’s hole. “Look at me,”she repeats. “You’re so pretty when you’re like this,” she says, warm, affectionate. Bucky feels his dick jump, warmth spreading through his limbs. Steve shifts, relaxing at her touch. 

“That’s so good,” she praises, penetrating him easily. He shakes his head, and she frowns. “You are,” she counters. “I’m proud of you. I know this isn’t easy for you.” Two fingers turn into three, Steve’s hole clinging tightly to them as she presses in and out, then withdraws them. He groans at the loss, cock deeply flushed, leaking so much he’s wet. 

Natasha lubes up her cock while Steve watches, then presses at his entrance. “You wanted it to hurt?”

“Green,” Steve chokes out, and Natasha presses forward. Steve gasps, taking in air like he’s asthmatic again, staring at Natasha as she grips his hips, forces him open. 

“Natasha,” he chants, “Natasha, oh my god-“ 

She bottoms out, and immediately starts fucking him. He cries out, and she wraps her hand around his throat again. 

“Not yet,” she warns him. 

“Please,” he begs, but he doesn’t touch his cock. “Please, Natasha.” 

She shifts onto her heels, changing the angle, and Steve _screams_. His whole body is shivering with overstimulation, begging to come. Bucky shivers with him. 

“Ok,” Natasha says, and takes his cock in her hand. “It’s ok,” she says, fucking him through it, “let go, good boy.”

Steve doesn’t need to be told twice. He’s arching up in her grip, eyes wide as she watches him, hips shuddering as he comes over his stomach, his chest. When he’s finished and she can’t coax any more from him, he’s still shaking all over, jolts when she pulls out. 

“I know,” she apologizes, running a hand over his stomach. “It doesn’t get smaller, I’m sorry.” She unstraps the dildo, pushes it away, and lays down on her back. 

“Come here,” she says firmly, pulling him down so his face is buried in the crook of her neck, finally letting him hide. She strokes his hair. “I know, that was a lot to ask. You did well. I’m so proud of you.” 

Steve’s shaking his head. “I’m not good,” he says, muffled. “Selfish.” 

“Sometimes,” Natasha allows. “What did you do?” 

“I was fucking him,” Steve says, “I was, _enjoying_ it, and he was raping Bucky the whole time.” He doesn’t sound pissed anymore. He sounds heartbroken. 

“You were lonely,” Natasha sighs. “He lied to you. It’s not your fault.” 

“Lonely, made me selfish. I’m messed up.” 

“You’re allowed to be human,” Natasha counters. 

Bucky can’t be detached any longer. He gets up and Steve startles, like he forgot Bucky was there. Bucky settles in behind him, kisses his neck. 

“World’s dumbest martyr,” he says simply, and presses against Steve’s back, wraps an arm around his middle. “Seriously.” 

Steve huffs a wet laugh. He’s still trembling. Bucky kisses him again. 

“I liked the show, Rogers,” he says idly, kissing Steve’s neck. Steve shifts, squirms. “Uh-uh. No way,” Bucky says, retreating, resuming cuddling. “You’re ridiculous.” 

“I’m sorry,” Steve says, and Bucky knows what he’s apologizing for. 

“I forgive you,” Bucky replies, “for being lied to and manipulated, and being lonely.” He bites Steve’s ear, and Steve sighs. 

“Love you,” he says, and Bucky squeezes his hand. “Love you,” Steve says to Natasha, and kisses her. 

“Steve,” Natasha says, uncertain, and Steve shakes his head. 

“I know,” Steve replies. “It’s ok.” He looks her in the eyes. “Thank you.” 

She runs her fingers over his cheekbone. “You’re welcome. Thank _you_.”


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> just some surgery.
> 
> **drug and alcohol mentions

Bucky turns onto his stomach. He waits. He turns again. He puts his pillow over his head. 

_Steve?_ , the Asset thinks. 

Bucky groans. “I am a goddamn adult,” he mutters into the pillow over his face. He doesn’t fall asleep. 

_Steve_ , the Asset stubbornly insists. 

“Ugh,” Bucky says, takes his blanket, and rolls out of the bed, up onto his feet. 

JARVIS lets him into Steve’s apartment with surprisingly little hesitance, and then he’s standing in front of Steve’s bedroom door. He frowns at the blanket wadded up in his hands, and deposits it on the couch. He loops the room, gets a glass of water a little too loudly, hoping Steve will hear him. 

He goes back to the door, taps it gently. 

No answer. 

“This is ridiculous,” he says to himself. Or, well, all the himselfs. Himselves? 

He knocks louder. He starts to think Steve is ignoring him. 

“I know your hearing ain’t that bad anymore,” Bucky says at approximately normal volume, and turns the handle. 

Steve is not there. It is 2:30 am. 

“Huh,” Bucky says to the empty space. He retreats, shutting the door behind him. He is tired, he wants to _sleep_ for more than ten minutes at a time, and he is not in the mood to play hide and seek. 

“JARVIS,” Bucky says to the ceiling, “where’s Steve?” 

“Captain Rogers is in his apartment,” JARVIS answers smoothly. 

Bucky looks around the apartment, the empty couch, the vacant kitchen, dishes neatly in the drying rack. Actually, this whole place looks a little too tidy. It doesn’t feel like Steve at all. There’s nothing on the walls, a couple of books tucked into an otherwise bare bookshelf, a single mug sitting next to the armchair. 

Steve never lived alone. Well, he did for about two weeks once before Bucky decided it was time to move out of his parent’s place. It just happened to coincide with Steve leaving his mother’s old apartment. Kismet. 

Bucky checks the bathroom, which is ridiculously expansive and requires him to turn on a light, but is probably just right for Steve’s supersoldier-ly proportions. No Steve. Huh. 

There’s one room left in Steve’s apartment, but Steve keeps the door shut and locked. Bucky hasn’t picked it yet, because he likes to think he’s a good enough friend to not cross that boundary. He finds himself standing in front of the door, rapping lightly on the wood with his knuckles. He turns the handle. 

Steve is staring out of his window, glazed and unseeing. He’s completely surrounded by a sea of art. 

There are canvases stacked in the small room, up against the walls. Steve can see in full color now, so he’s got some acrylics, watercolors. But mostly there are sketches. Piles of paper, tossed up onto the desk with the lamp that casts a dim, yellowed light- not a fluorescent, because Steve’s sensitive to them. There are sketches taped up, on the floor, sorted into piles. Most are recognizable to Bucky; their old apartment, shops they went to, that one church they slept in when they were in Italy. They’re all of the past. Some piles look like they’re the same place, drawn over and over again. Christ. 

“Uh-uh,” Bucky says, “no.” 

Steve startles, nearly knocking over the bottle of liquor he’s got next to his elbow. He whips around, looking panicked, and maybe this wasn’t the right thing to do. Too late to take it back now. 

“Bucky,” Steve says, smiling, turning to block the bottle with his body. His hands are covered in charcoal, wiped down over and over with a rag. “Hey.” 

“That even work on you?” Bucky asks, pointing to the bottle. “’Cause it sure doesn’t on me. I tried.” 

Steve winces, dropping the pasted-on smile. “No,” he admits glumly. “I tried, too. After you fell. It’s just the taste. Brings back memories.” 

Bucky nods. “They gave me heroin, for a while, to try and keep me mellow,” he muses. “Don’t recommend it. Stopped working anyway.” 

“Jesus,” Steve says. He looks around, taking stock of the room, then puts the bottle in the trash, wipes the rag over his hands. He eyes Bucky in the door, and shuffles in place. “Sorry. Didn’t mean for anyone to see this.” 

“That’s at least half your problem,” Bucky replies, “but I’m here telling you that ‘cause I was too afraid of my dreams to close my eyes tonight, so,” he extends a hand, makes a grabby motion. “I’ll be honest, I’m not 100% clear on how to solve anything.” 

Steve laughs and shakes his head, stands to take his hand. At first, they're sleeping on opposite sides of the bed. In his sleep, though, Steve starts persistently hunting for a teddy bear, and unless Bucky sticks a pillow in his arms he ends up being it. After the fifth night, he decides he doesn’t mind.

*

“Harder, better, faster, stronger,” Tony says, gesturing to the metal arm displayed on the workbench. “Mostly lighter.” 

Bucky lifts it experimentally. “That’s amazing,” he says sincerely, and Tony blusters. 

“Yeah, sorry I don’t have the sleeve done yet,” Tony babbles, “had to send that one out.”

“Sleeve?” Bucky asks, about five steps behind but jogging along valiantly. 

“For the arm,” Tony gestures, “I mean, I’m sure you appreciate that this one screams homicidal murderbot. Useful in your line of work. But sometimes you gotta be able to go grab Starbucks in the summer, you know?”

Bucky runs his fingers gently over the metal. “I got used to it,” he admits. “That’s the only reason I wanted it to look the same.” He stares at the grooves in the arm, intimately familiar with the way it can lock, rigid, to punch through concrete, rend metal. “I never liked killing,” he admits. “I mean I understood, during the war, what needed to be done. I went when they called. But. I read some of the books on me. Do you know they say I enlisted? Didn’t. They changed my serial number and everything to fit the story.”

“You gave Ahmuricah your image,” Tony shrugs. 

Bucky laughs. “ _I_ didn’t. Steve did. I just followed him.” 

“Do you ever regret it?” 

Bucky’s brow furrows, taken aback. “No. I’ll always follow Steve.” He notices that he has Tony’s full attention, and is a little unnerved by it. “He does the right thing. Always. Even if it’s hard, or it means he has to go against orders, or he has to make sacrifices.”

Tony laughs. “Are you serious? He was always that self-righteous?” 

Bucky smiles. “Well, Erskine said the serum amplified things, made the good better, bad worse. Steve always had a lot of good in him.” He sobers. “It changed me, too. ‘Cept I’m not Steve. I never was very good. I mean, I was good at killing people. But as long as I was doing it for Steve,” he shrugged. 

Bucky can see Stark’s gears turning. “You were loyal,” he muses, then his gaze drifts. “Dum-E! How many times do I have to tell you not to play with that!” He raps a robot on its single extending claw, shaking his head. The robot makes a noise, and backs away. 

Bucky’s eyes widen. “It can hear you?” he asks. 

“Well, yeah.” 

“Cool,” Bucky breathes, waving at Dum-E. Dum-E waves back, extends his claw. Bucky shakes it gently, smiling. 

“Barnes. You talk to JARVIS every day,” Tony points out. 

“Sure, but. Robot,” Bucky counters.

“You have a robot arm?” Tony huffs. “A way cooler robot arm.” Dum-E makes a low noise and scoots off to sulk in a corner. Tony opens a panel on the arm. “Did you know you had some sneaky sort of shock device hiding in your arm?”

“No,” Bucky says, pulling a stool over. “They didn’t let me know anything about the insides. Wait,” he pauses, staring intently at the arm for a moment. “Oh, yeah, I remember now. Like a tazer?” 

“Yes, like a tazer,” Tony says dryly, “except more like stripping your nervous system.”

Bucky nods. “Yeah, exactly.” 

Tony stares at him. “Right, okay. So this servo here,” he taps a circular device, “controls this panel, and when you want to open it…” he stops and looks at Bucky, who is listening intently. “I thought you hated me,” Tony says suddenly. 

“I did,” Bucky shrugs. “I was wrong. You’re not bad people.”

“Could you tell that to Steve?” Tony mutters. “He frowns at me like I’m something stuck on the bottom of his shoe.” 

Bucky stares at him, then breaks down into cackles. “Oh my god. I’m telling him you said that.” He shakes his head. “The problem is you’re an asshole, Stark. Sometimes, it makes you look like a bully. But he doesn’t think you’re a bad person.” 

Tony pouts, sets the panel of the arm aside. “Fine, whatever. Now pay attention, ‘cause I’m only explaining this once.”

*

When Steve came down to the lab to discuss Bucky’s surgery, he wasn’t expecting this. 

“Is he… teaching your robot to dance?” he asks Tony. Tony flips a pair of goggles up, and discards whatever he’s bent over. 

“Steven!” he says, then processes the question. He looks over at Dum-E, swaying from side to side, following Bucky’s instruction. “Huh. He’s trying. You know, I’m not a biologist, but learning to entrain to a beat is a pretty advanced skill…”

“Great,” Bucky says, “now you just sort of,” he moves his feet, and Dum-E rotates his base. Bucky grins. “Yeah, and if you wanna do, like, a claw movement,” he demonstrates with his hand. Dum-E gives a high pitched beep and attempts to incorporate the gesture. 

“I think he’s better at it than I am,” Steve muses. 

Bucky turns to him, and Steve can see some strands of hair that have fallen out of his loose bun, trailing over his jewel green henley. He’s catching on to modern fashion, and it looks damn good on him. Steve is still wearing khaki. “That ain’t hard,” Bucky says automatically. 

“Hey, fuck you,” Steve snorts. Tony gapes. “Remember when you used liquid courage to dance with Lorna?”

 _Lorna_ , Bucky mouths, frowning. His brow furrows for a long minute. Then his eyes widen. “No,” he says, rushing over to Steve and covering his mouth with his hand. 

Steve licks it, nice and slobbery. Bucky pulls his hand away and wipes it on his shirt. “You are a disgusting human being who resorts to cheap tricks,” he mutters. 

“And you _threw up_ , all over her shoes? ‘Cause I think I’ve done better dancing than tha-“

Bucky neatly tackles him to the ground. The workbenches tremble. 

“Children!” Tony squawks. “Expensive equipment.” 

“Sorry,” Bucky says. 

“Hish fault,” Steve says from underneath Bucky’s leg. Bucky rolls off of him, and gives him a hand up. 

Stark pulls up diagrams to detail the surgery, and Bucky sobers almost instantly. Steve almost wants to pull Bucky out of here and keep the mood going for just a little longer. Dr. Cho appears on the screen. 

“So,” Stark says, “because I was prepared, we already had a plan in place to put most of the supportive hardware in during the first surgery. So, uh, your shoulder didn't stay shattered.” Stark points to the scan of Bucky’s shoulder and collarbone, before and after. The before scans are a jumble of small metal supports screwed into Bucky’s bones. Now, the bone fragments of shattered bones have been removed, and replaced with Tony’s alloys. 

“Your collarbone completely healed in about a week and a half. Congrats.” Stark shakes his head. “Now, we mostly need to fix some things with the external socket, and put the new leads in. Then we can attach the arm, and calibrate it.” 

Bucky looks grimly at the scans, scratches the bandages covering the stump of his arm. Steve has been changing them for him while Bucky looks away. They’re not exactly necessary anymore, but Bucky started to panic the last time Steve suggested leaving the bandages behind. “How much is connecting the arm gonna hurt?” Bucky asks, monotone. 

“Shouldn’t,” Tony says quickly. “Though I can’t be 100% sure. If it does, we can disconnect it right away.”

Bucky nods. “Ok,” he says in a small voice. 

“Worst part is already over,” Tony reassures him, and Steve gives him a grateful look. 

“We’re going to have to shave part of your head, though,” Dr. Cho adds. 

Bucky shrugs. “Undercut,” he says smoothly. Steve looks at him. 

“You’re running out of excuses to not act your age, Steven,” Tony points out. 

“I’m ninety-five,” Steve says absently, and Bucky elbows him. 

“Well, I don’t know about you,” Bucky drawls, “but I’m 29. Give or take, uh. Four years?” 

“Do you have any questions?” Dr. Cho asks. 

*

As soon as Bucky enters Steve’s apartment, he goes blank and withdrawn. Steve makes dinner while Bucky sits on the couch, wrapped in Steve’s comforter. When Steve calls him over, Bucky picks at his food. 

“You need the calories,” Steve points out, and Bucky grimaces. 

“I’ll throw it up,” Bucky says, pushes out his chair, and retreats to the bedroom. Steve wishes Nat were here with them, but she was called out on a mission a few days back. It’s not uncommon for her to spend the majority of her days halfway across the globe. 

The next day is even worse. The surgery looming the next morning is a palpable presence. Steve decides to stay in for the day after he comes back from his run and finds Bucky staring blankly at the dark TV screen. Bucky’s eyes track Steve as he crosses the room, does the dishes, answers an email. But he hasn’t said anything all day. 

Steve sits in the armchair across from the couch. “What are you worried about?” 

Bucky looks at him, makes a pained expression, shakes his head. He pulls his hand loose from the blanket and signs something, but Steve can’t understand it. 

“You’ll have to spell it out to me,” he says. “Slowly.” 

Bucky thinks about this for a minute. _I don’t know_ , he signs, frustrated. _It’s the w-._ Steve misses the last word. 

“Can you repeat that? Sorry.” 

_Waiting,_ Bucky signs patiently. He sighs. _I don’t like being hel-ess_.

“Helpless,” Steve says back. Bucky nods. “How can I help?” Steve asks. 

Bucky gives him a wry look, then raises his hand, finger pointing towards the ceiling, and moves it in a circle. It’s a military sign- _come here, to me._

Steve joins Bucky on the couch, and Bucky leans against him. “Don’t like pain,” Bucky says aloud, stilted. “Tired.” 

“It’ll be over soon,” Steve replies. “Why don’t we watch a movie?” 

“Ok,” Bucky agrees, and doesn’t comment after that. By the time they’re on their second one, Bucky has his head propped on Steve’s thigh, silent but comfortable enough. 

*

There are wires, needles, beeping monitors, trays of instruments. Bucky breathes in slowly through his nose like the therapist taught him, counting. He holds it. He lets it go, counts. Breathes in. 

Most of the questions he’s asked require single-word answers or grunts. He manages them, monotone. He changes into a back-tie gown, makes it to the anesthesia. Then he starts to panic. He stands.

“Steve,” he says, high-pitched. Steve comes over immediately, responds to his tone. 

“It’s going to be okay,” Steve says, holding his hand. “It’ll be over soon.” 

Bucky looks into Steve’s eyes, hypnotic, tries to match Steve’s steadiness. He goes somewhere empty, moving like molasses. “Ok.”

“You want to do this?” Steve asks. 

Bucky wants this, he really does. He wants the arm back, not the gaping space where it should be, that odd expectation in his brain that it should be there when he moves his hand, but sees nothing. “Yes.” Bucky sits back on the wheeled bed, looks away when someone slides a needle into his arm. The good arm. He’s okay right now, with the one arm. What if they do something to injure it? What would he do without either arm? And what if the new arm causes the same sharp pain, but Tony can’t turn it off? Even Tony admitted he wasn’t sure it wouldn’t hurt. What if they cause more brain damage, and Bucky can’t keep it together anymore? 

Breathe in, counting. Hold. Breathe out. He lets the anesthetic run through his veins. He lays back down on the operating table like he’s supposed to, lets them attach the heart monitor leads. He’s hyperventilating when they put on the oxygen mask, but the drugs are already pulling him under, cold and dark. The room starts to fade, and he shuts his eyes tight, tries not to fight it. 

Steve’s hand is warm in his. “I’ll be right here when you wake up,” he says, and he’s glad they made the exception of having Steve there, because otherwise he doesn’t think he’d have made it without hurting someone. Then that’s the last thing he remembers. 

*

He’s panicking. He’s lashing out, arm, legs, he’d bite if he could. He can’t see. He doesn’t know why he’s fighting, but he can’t stop. Then there’s a heavy weight on top of him, a low, murmured voice. He can’t move, but it’s ok- he’s not sure why he was moving before. 

“They come up the way they go under,” a woman says, “every time.” 

Bucky moans, opens his eyes. The light is really bright. He closes them, opens again. 

Steve is perched on his chest, looking down at him with worry. “Hey,” Steve says. 

“I- need to,” Bucky says, and a nurse appears with a bucket. Bucky leans to the side and heaves. 

Steve pulls back gingerly, then moves away. 

“Sorry,” Bucky says to the room. 

“Common reaction,” the nurse says, taking the bucket away. 

“Did I hurt anyone?” Bucky asks hoarsely.

“You were too weak,” Steve answers. “I was trying to keep you from tearing your stitches.” 

Stark appears at the foot of the bed. “How’s the pain? More importantly, where’s the pain?” 

“Hurts,” Bucky says shortly. “Had worse.” He brings his hand to his shoulder, his neck. “Hurts here.” 

“Ok, good,” Stark says. “Wanted to make sure it wasn’t hurting in your arm. That would be a problem. But this is my work, so of course it’s not an issue.” He pats the bed frame. “We can attach the arm in a few days, whenever you’re ready. You’ve just got some muscle and skin to heal.” 

“O-kay,” Bucky says, and curls onto his side. Steve settles down in a plastic chair, and sits for a few hours until Bucky is ready to move.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> moar sex v soon


End file.
